A lifelong dream fulfilled: Across the Atlantic from west to east on the old Hanseat 70

The Atlantic adventure begins at night in the Sunshine State. The sails are set at 11.00 pm and the engine falls silent. Despite the late hour, it is still so oppressively warm that the T-shirts are sticking to the skin. The boat now gets a boost from the Gulf Stream and a pleasant breeze from abeam. At 7.5 knots, "Ente" is literally flying north towards South Carolina. Gigantic clouds drift over Miami's sparkling skyline, making the countless skyscrapers seem tiny.

Even smaller is the ship that will take us across the North Atlantic to Portugal and will be our floating home for two months. The 34-foot boat is more than big enough for a two-handed crew, but is it big enough for the endless ocean and all its whims? We firmly believe so, after all, other boats have already crossed the pond.

More about "Crossing the Atlantic":

• Podcast episode: Atlantic crossing on 34 feet - with YACHT editor Morten Strauch
• Interview: Atlantic crossing with 45 women - Meike Holland reports
• Portrait: Solo on the high seas - novice sailor crosses the Atlantic on 18 feet
• Hannes Lindemann: Crossing the Atlantic in a folding boat
• Portrait: Adventurer sailed across the Atlantic 21 times

Looking at the nautical chart, the first 450 nautical mile leg to Charleston seems like child's play. But with winds against the current and unpredictable squalls, it can quickly become very uncomfortable on the edge of the Sargasso Sea. With side to aft winds of around ten knots, the ideal weather window has opened up for the next few days, which harmonises perfectly with the northerly flow of the Gulf Stream.

I am happy to take over the first dog watch, but sleeping is out of the question. The excitement of the perfect start to the biggest sailing adventure so far is too great. A long-cherished lifelong dream has become a reality. The fact that I can do this together with my brother Timo is a priceless bonus.

Route of the Hanseat 70 "Ente"

Directly above the Hanseat 70, the Milky Way shows itself in all its splendour. It looks as if the masthead is drawing a sparkling swirl through the sky. And the boat is also tracing a magical trail of light through the water: sea light! The blood-orange crescent moon emerging from the ocean in the east completes the symphony of the nocturnal light spectacle.

Fishing couldn't be easier than on the Atlantic

During the day, the sun beats down mercilessly on the deck, so the cockpit is barricaded with awnings. It's always a makeshift solution, but nobody sees it except us. A UV-resistant hooded longsleeve from the US fishing shop proves to be a good investment. There was also a simple reel with a sturdy 100-metre fishing line and bait in the form of colourful rubber octopuses. Fishing couldn't be easier. Simply tied to the stern cleat and cast out in the wake, it is only a matter of time before the first catch is made.

Because the warm Gulf Stream is teeming with magnificent fish. Just in time for lunch, a shimmering golden-green mahi-mahi wriggles on the hook, which is immediately filleted and transferred to the pan. Nothing canned today! It gets even better two days later when we spot a disused offshore platform. Timo immediately senses big prey and prepares for an apnoea dive with a harpoon.

As soon as he's in the water, he goes straight down with the help of a weight belt. There's an eerie silence on board and I'm not entirely comfortable with my brother pursuing his hunting instincts alone. I hope he doesn't overdo it. And who knows what else is swimming around down there? Half a minute later, he shoots through the surface again and hurries to reach the swimming ladder. "Take this!" he gasps frantically and hands over the long harpoon. "A shark?" I ask as I scan the surface for triangular fins. "Also!" he coughs and pulls himself up. "But it wasn't interested in me. I shot a big fish instead!" It turns out to be such a large horsehead mackerel that even carefully portioned it doesn't fit in the cooler. Necessity is the mother of invention: the remaining pieces are cured on a dipping fin and placed on the foredeck in the blazing sun. Only time will tell whether this works.

Coastal hopping in the USA

The long entrance through Charleston Bay has a lot to offer. An artificial island with the historic Fort Sumter, where the first shots of the American Civil War were fired, passes by on the port side. Meanwhile, pelicans dive into the murky water around the boat to catch prey with their characteristic beaks. There are always dolphins and countless fishing boats of all sizes. There seems to be no shortage of fish here either. As we want to stay in the southern metropolis for a few days and the mooring fees are high, we drop anchor in the immediate vicinity of the City Marina and the old town centre. However, a car is needed for provisions, new oars for the dinghy, a fresh starter battery and other spare parts. There are no well-stocked equipment shops directly at the harbour. The specialised shops are scattered far and wide in the outer city area.

I'm also on a very personal mission here, which will take me to a wooded area outside the city. The area here is one of the best places in the world to find ancient shark teeth. Either on the beaches among shells and stones or digging in fossil-rich layers of earth. The Holy Grail for collectors is the tooth of a megalodon, an apex predator that became extinct around three million years ago and was the largest shark in the history of the earth. Its impressive tusks can measure up to 18 centimetres. The decision is made in favour of a guided excavation, during which two beautiful megs come to light. Of course, the treasure is stowed away in the grab bag.

For the last day in South Carolina, "Ente" is moved to the jetty at Safe Harbour Marina so that she can bunker better and enjoy the washing machine and tumble dryer. In addition to fresh fruit and vegetables, a few dozen eggs, pasta, rice and a wide variety of tinned food, 100 litres of bottled drinking water are also brought on board. In the midsummer heat with extreme humidity, every effort is extremely strenuous. Finally, we treat ourselves to a meat-heavy feast at Lewis Barbecue - an absolute hallelujah experience for the palate.

Final preparations for the Atlantic

The next 200 nautical mile trip takes us to Cape Lookout in North Carolina. On the way, we are suddenly hailed by "Warship 7" at night. There is a brief commotion, but the US warship, which is the size of a small aircraft carrier, just wants to say that it will pass on our starboard side. The ship is a long way off, but according to the AIS there are other naval vessels and a submarine in the vicinity. After sunrise, hovercrafts cross the bow, plus helicopters and tilt-rotor aeroplanes in the air. A lot of activity here.

The lagoon-like bay, where the last anchor stop before the big jump across the Atlantic is due, is all the more peaceful. While Timo dives the hull and cleans the antifouling film, I label the last cans of food and clear the ship. In the evening, we lie in the cockpit and listen to the waves rolling in. It has freshened up, and a queasy feeling spreads through my stomach. Won't we overdo it with the old boat? What surprises await us? We go to bed with a good shot of rum - tomorrow the adventure really starts.

The Atlantic adventure begins

All doubts are wiped away and the anchor is raised under sail. The manoeuvre succeeds flawlessly, and full of euphoria we speed out of the bay, then cruise around the pointed cape with its outgoing shoals and finally head northeast out into the open ocean.

Over the next few days, we again utilise the thrust of the Gulf Stream, supported by a rough wind. With the wave crests rolling in from astern and a speed of eight to nine knots, we feel like we're on an Imoca. The Etmal record is 187 nautical miles, which is remarkable for the Hanseat under her old cloth.

The rhythm on board has also stabilised, and tasks are distributed democratically: These include baking bread in the pan, washing up in the bailer, obtaining weather forecasts via Starlink and, of course, working on the foredeck when changing sails or reefing manoeuvres. The mainsail is always run in the first reef - the second-hand sail that has been ordered is simply too big for the rig. We usually sleep every four hours. Due to the lack of leeward sails, this is often done in the starfish position: with arms and legs outstretched to maximise grip.

Storm depression pushes stress levels up

We need it at the latest when we are hit by a storm whose force is much stronger than forecast. At 46 knots at its peak, our stress level also increases. We are trapped below deck for 36 hours while the autopilot does its job. Everything is wet to soaking wet, and the breakers hitting the hull thunder in our ears like blows from a sledgehammer. It's good to know that in the early days of the GRP era, boat builders still used laminate as thick as a thumb. Food is eaten pragmatically on the saloon floor: Wraps with peanut butter.

But nothing is as beautiful as the morning after, when the sun comes out again. In hindsight, everything was half as bad and the first coffee back outside was a real treat. The only thing missing was the traditional blue water shower. A line around the belly and being pulled through the stern water for a moment. At a depth of 4000 metres, a unique feeling with a slightly eerie note.

Sometimes it seems as if there is no life but us in the endless desert of water. There's not a ship for miles around, and since Cape Lookout, nothing wants to bite on our towline either. With 999.9 nautical miles remaining to the westernmost island of Flores in the Azores, we drink a rum and decide to repeat this solemn act every time we hit another number. The salted fish experiment has worked, however, and the finely chopped cubes are great in pasta sauces or as a savoury snack.

Land in sight

This is how the days and nights pass. We manage to avoid a terrifying low-pressure area, but we are hit by a leaden calm, which is at least as nerve-wracking as a never-ending storm. Especially when the remaining swell tosses the boat back and forth in a completely senseless manner. One night we switch off all the lights, switch off the engine and let ourselves drift.

Dolphins come to visit regularly - sometimes in threes, sometimes a school of 30 animals. They always spread good humour.

After three weeks, Flores is finally in sight. As the volcanic island stretches almost a kilometre into the air, it takes a little while before we get close enough to touch it. Late in the evening and in complete darkness, the sky suddenly explodes in front of us in the form of laser fireworks. We are actually arriving at the start of a four-day festival, the Festa do Emigrante. We gladly accept this invitation and mingle with the people!