18.05.2026
Crossing the Atlantic with a BAVARIA 42 from 1988
Crossing the Atlantic in a 1988 Bavaria 42 – 24 days of routine, risk and the thrill of the elements
Crossing the Atlantic is never just a line on a map. It is a constant interplay of planning, improvisation and the realisation that, in the end, the ocean does what it wants anyway. With our Saira, a Bavaria 42 (built in 1988), we set a direct course from the Canary Islands to Martinique, without stopping in the Cape Verde Islands, with a clear destination: the Bay of Sainte-Anne.
We communicated via an Iridium Go, which we switched on every few days to check the weather. These days, when almost all sailors are using Starlink and can be online all the time, that seems almost a bit nostalgic. But it worked – and perhaps that is precisely what made this Atlantic crossing what it was: stripped back, intense and quite honest.
A bittersweet start
The start on El Hierro set the tone right from the off. We set off in 29-knot winds: somewhere between anticipation and that slightly frantic feeling that we’d surely forgotten something.
What we actually had to sort out ‘just quickly’: filling up with diesel. So off we went to the island’s southernmost marina, Puerto de la Restinga – in a proper gale. As we moored, we were immediately taught our first lesson: fender rail damaged, brass bent, wood splintered. Nothing dramatic, but a rather unnecessary start. So the Atlantic can start even in the harbour.
Out on the water, however, things went all the better. In the first three days, we covered around 450 nautical miles, carried along by a strong beam wind. A wind direction we quickly learnt to appreciate – far more pleasant than the tailwind that was to come later and really got the boat rolling. On top of that, squall lines accompanied us from the start, rather uncharacteristic for these latitudes, but apparently the Atlantic had its own agenda.
And then: a complete lull in the middle of the Atlantic
The first week was a constant up and down. Then, on the fifth day: a complete lull. The ocean turned into a mirror-smooth duck pond. At first it felt almost surreal, then surprisingly relaxing. After a few days of motoring, the wind returned on day seven, and we were finally able to sail again. From day eight onwards with a light-wind genoa – and somewhere between movement and standstill, our rhythm settled in.
One scene from that time sticks in my mind in particular: we’re sitting relaxed in the cockpit, philosophising about an imaginary ‘sail-in bakery’ with coffee to go. No sooner had we said it than a freighter from Togo appeared behind us – about 300 metres away. We hadn’t seen it before, nor had we spotted it on the plotter, whose range was set to 20 nautical miles. The moral of the story: be careful what you wish for. And: from that moment on, the plotter zoom was consistently set to 10 nautical miles.
Generally speaking, Björn, who had already sailed across the Pacific in his younger years, knew what he was getting himself into with the Atlantic crossing. Andrea, on the other hand, thought she knew.
For her, it was her first ocean crossing – and whilst others talk of strong winds, high waves and sleepless nights, Andrea had her own picture in her mind: gentle breezes, a soft lapping at the bow, perhaps a coffee in the morning sun, whilst the boat glides towards the Caribbean as if by itself. In short: more wellness than a round-the-world voyage.
And the Atlantic? It was listening.
What followed was a stretch of sea characterised less by dramatic stormy encounters and more by an almost artistically exaggerated interpretation of the term ‘calm’. Days when the sea looked as if it had been ironed. Nights when even the sails yawned quietly. The wind? Apparently on holiday mode too.
Andrea was thrilled at first. “This is exactly how I imagined it,” she said – probably for the tenth time, whilst the boat, with impressive consistency… stood still.
Björn, on the other hand, began to redefine the concept of progress. A single knot of speed became an event. Two knots a sensation. And a comical natural spectacle came free of charge: a tuna about 70 cm long swam alongside us for 48 hours.
On Wishes and Diesel Consumption
Of course, Andrea had got exactly what she’d wished for: a relaxed crossing. So relaxed, in fact, that even time itself eventually decided to slow down a notch. The fact that one occasionally forgot one was actually on an Atlantic crossing and not on a floating balcony was merely a minor detail.
At some point, after the umpteenth hour at sea with the sea as smooth as glass and the nth time someone had said, “It’s actually quite nice like this,” it slowly dawned on us: you really should be careful what you wish for if you want to arrive at some point. The Atlantic delivers. Always. Just sometimes a little too literally.
In any case, the following days picked up exactly where that realisation had left off: with plenty of calm and very little wind. A total of six days without any significant headway. The engine ran more often than planned as a result – and the diesel consumption took on a life of its own. About half of our reserve was soon history.
Time… plenty of time, but little wind
At least there was time for things that usually get overlooked: small repairs, for example our sailgen, which had suddenly come loose from its fitting and needed refitting. Or fishing.
Contrary to all the well-meaning advice we’d received beforehand, we discovered that there’s actually plenty of activity beneath the Sargassum fields. So, engine on, close to the seagrass beds, line out – and sure enough: fresh fish on board. The Atlantic wasn’t just standing still; it was also delivering.
In the midst of this lull, we finally filled the last diesel cans into the tank. From then on, it was clear: this has to be enough. A thought that quietly but quite persistently takes root in the back of your mind.
Flying fish and other challenges
When the wind returned, it didn’t do so half-heartedly. And it brought some new passengers with it straight away: flying fish. At night, they regularly landed on deck, one of them right in the captain’s face. A surprise for him; for the fish, it was probably not a highlight either.
The last few days before Martinique were quite a challenge. One night, the wind picked up from around 15 to just under 30 knots within a matter of minutes. The boat heeled heavily, went out of control, and the mainsail flapped over to the other side despite the storm stay – three stanchions ended up ‘creatively bent’ in the process.
At the same time, the jib took on a life of its own and started to twist like an egg timer. At night, with waves of around four metres, there was no way we could work properly. So all we could do was persevere, secure the boat and wait. It wasn’t until dawn that we were able to unfurl the sail again by carefully sailing in circles. For Andrea, it was an absolute nightmare – and for both of us, a rather vivid reminder that such incidents generally only happen at night. Without exception.
A few days earlier, it had already become clear just how important routine is: during a rig check, we discovered a loose nut on the rod kicker. Nothing that immediately catches the eye, but exactly the sort of detail that can become a real nuisance later on.
Then, on the penultimate day, another classic: the wind picked up, and our crockery – carelessly left unsecured during the lull – decided to slide off the shelf en masse. The result: a deafening clatter and significantly less ‘unbreakable’ crockery than before. The Atlantic has a good memory.
Finally arrived in Martinique!
On the 24th day, we finally sailed into the bay of Sainte-Anne in Martinique. Three days later than planned – which, looking back, didn’t feel like a disadvantage at all. The periods of calm had something you rarely get at sea: true tranquillity.
For Andrea, who had been rather sceptical about the crossing at the start, this became one of the biggest positives. Scepticism turned into serenity, and in the end, a little pride too.
What remains in the end
What remains is more than just a journey. It is a kind of reset. No constant noise, no constant availability, no digital background hum. Instead, wind, water, rhythm. And at some point even a recalibrated sense of smell; the first whiff of land after weeks at sea is more intense than one could ever have imagined.
And in the end, the realisation remains: the Atlantic is not a uniform space. It is a system of silence, pressure and movement. And an old, sturdy Bavaria 42 is exactly the right vessel to withstand these contrasts – if you’re prepared to embrace them.
If you’re curious to see what happens next, you can find the Freiheitssegler on their YouTube channel – Freiheitssegler
BAVARIA YACHTS would like to extend our warmest thanks to Björn and Andrea for this post! We wish you a hand’s breadth of water beneath your keel and ideal winds at all times! Have you also had an exciting experience with your BAVARIA? Feel free to send us an email here!