I have completed a large North Sea tour and most recently a Baltic Sea tour. I've also been passionately sailing single-handed for several years now. But can I also master an ocean on my own? Or even the whole world? Or to put it another way: do I have enough of a Bernard Moitessier or a Wilfried Erdmann in me to pull off such an endeavour? After all, I want to take part in the Global Solo Challenge in 2027. But that means coping with long distances and extreme situations. Can I do that? There's only one way to find out.
It is 6.30 a.m. on the morning of 11 October when I untie the lines in Workum and set off on my biggest adventure as a single-handed sailor to date: a great North Atlantic tour. Up to this point, nobody knows about my plans. I didn't want to announce it until I had actually taken the first difficult step: setting off.
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My feelings could not be more ambivalent. Fortunately, the joy and curiosity about the coming months prevail. Nevertheless, I can't deny a good dose of respect and fear of what lies ahead. What happens if ...? My boat is rather small and, at 3.5 tonnes, also light. And it's already autumn weather on the North Sea. This means that on my way through the English Channel and across the Bay of Biscay, I will have to sail in strong winds instead of staying in safe harbours. Waiting is not an option at this time of year.
After a final stop in Scheveningen, we make it to Le Havre in one go. My sailing friend and mini-Transat finisher Andreas Lindlahr follows me from Amsterdam on his Pogo 36 with a slight delay. "We couldn't stay in the harbour after you left with your little boat in this weather," he tells me when I meet him later in Le Havre. The international sailing elite have just gathered there to wait for the start of the Transat Jacques Vabre. I don't want to stay that long, I'd rather get the next 70 nautical miles to Cherbourg over with quickly. With strong gusty winds from the south, I encounter several Imoca and Class 40 yachts on the way, which fly past me proudly and elegantly.
Waiting at the Bay of Biscay
We then travelled via Roscoff to Camaret Sur Mer and Brest. There I weather the storm of the century "Ciaran" in the harbour, a sleepless night with gusts of up to 80 knots. Fortunately, I get away with it.
Winter is already setting in on the Atlantic coast. I get a queasy feeling at the thought of soon crossing the Bay of Biscay. A WhatsApp group, the "Biscay Hopefuls", forms among the sailors waiting here who also want to head south. An Englishman, Paul, has been waiting a long time. He has missed several weather windows due to repairs and now wants to set off as quickly as possible. But my impatience is even greater. So I am the first to spontaneously leave Camaret on 16 November. Knowing that the wind will be stronger from the front for about half a day, but that conditions will be good again afterwards, I leave the "Biskay Hopefuls" waving at the jetty.
At the Pointe du Raz, that notorious rocky headland with its offshore cliffs, I have the current with me as the daylight gradually fades and a moonless night covers the ship like a black shroud. Later, a new swell arrives, waves and current run in opposite directions and shake the "Queen" violently. The wind increases, as does my restlessness. Inner voices warn me not to pass through this notorious area at this time of year. I feel sick. But I can't allow myself to get seasick here and now. I give myself a Vomex and manage to sail into the first night without throwing up.
Getting out of situations like this is perhaps the true art of single-handed sailing. I am helped by the experience of having survived something similar before. I close the hatch and leave the darkness, wind and noise outside and lay my mattress on the floorboards to get some rest. I block out thoughts of fishermen without AIS, the wave height over the continental shelf or drifting containers. "I am calm, relaxed and detached!" I repeat these words from autogenic training until sleep sets in as proof of self-deception.
Atlantic or Mediterranean?
This way, I get through the first night with sleep phases of up to 30 minutes and start the morning with an instant coffee and freeze-dried porridge from the bag. Then I reach for the book my friend gave me: "Gentleman Overboard". After a few pages, I put it aside again - a good read, but the wrong place. As predicted, the wind changes. For the next 24 hours, it blows on the bow of my "Queen" at over 30 knots. With the headsail reefed, she barely gains any height.
When I spot the AIS signals of numerous freighters in the middle of the night, I decide to tack. On the tracker, my course line will later look like the Matterhorn in the centre of the Bay of Biscay. The "Queen" and I hold out bravely. At one point, however, the hull slams into a wave trough with such force and noise that I'm amazed that everything remains intact. On the third day of my crossing of the Bay of Biscay, the wind turns back and weakens. I reach the north-west coast of Spain in a light breeze. As I enter the marina in A Coruña at night, the tension finally subsides.
With just a few stops, we continue along the Spanish and Portuguese coast. My worries about an orca attack are limited; I trust the red and supposedly deterrent antifouling colour under the hull. I also hear that the attacks have shifted towards Gibraltar. Fishing nets cause me more headaches. On leaving Muros, I actually get caught in one. I stop immediately, furl the foresail and am lucky: the net, which had got caught on the rudder blade, slides down.
I reach the estuary near Porto as the fog sets in. As I pass the red beacon, the silhouette of an angler appears on the quay wall, an unreal scene, like in an Edgar Wallace film. I carefully motor through the narrow fairway to the harbour. Time for a longer break. Over the next few days, I explore the city on my folding bike. In the evening, I stroll through the alleyways of the fishing village of Afurada near the marina. Laundry hangs out to dry in front of colourful houses, whole families sit on plastic chairs in front of some of the entrances and talk loudly, fish sizzles on the grills of the restaurants and it smells of charcoal. In the "Os Rolas" bar, some men are watching a football match and drinking Super Bock. I order port wine. I like it here; I could stay. But my plan is different.
We travel past Lisbon in one long stroke to Portimao. Here, at the southern tip of Portugal, I have to make a final decision as to whether I trust myself and the boat to continue or whether I'll turn off into the Mediterranean with an excuse. After all, it's over 500 nautical miles to the Canary Islands. I've never sailed such a long distance non-stop single-handed before. Heading south, my decision was made on 13 December. With 6 Beaufort and increasing waves, the European mainland remains astern. I won't see it again for months.
Atlantic transforms skippers from land to boat people
It takes me four days to reach Lanzarote. After a good start, I get stuck in a lull just before the island. A first exercise in patience. Then on to Gran Canaria. An unexpected temptation lurks in "Sailors Bay": the harbour bar is a meeting place for adventurers and globetrotters. Many are hoping for a chance to sail to the Caribbean. I fend off all crew enquiries. Another two weeks pass with final boat preparations and - once again - waiting for the right weather. The anticipation of the vastness of the Atlantic grows with each passing day. But also the tension.
It comes off on 22 January, the day I set off. With a strong wind from the north-east, I sail southwards along the coast of Gran Canaria. The wind vane steers, I lose myself in thought. Without stopping in Cape Verde, I plan to sail as far as Martinique. But is that really what I want? Or am I really after recognition and attention, as measured by the number of clicks and comments on my YouTube channel? I try to be honest with myself, but I can't really find an answer. Finally I say to myself: "Philipp, you just have to find out. If you're not doing this for the love of sailing, then you might as well quit, sell your boat and that's it!" Days later, when the Cape Verde Islands are astern, I no longer need to worry about cancelling. The next opportunity would be on the other side of the Atlantic.
With every day at sea, I transform myself from a land person to a boat person. Eating, sailing, sleeping and starting all over again - I find myself settling into this rhythm more and more. I know from previous long sea passages that it takes time for the initial restlessness to fade and for me to arrive at sea. In this unique place. In this strange habitat. I am only a guest here, I can only survive on my small, just nine metre long vessel that keeps me afloat.
Peace and solitude are now a thing of the past
I try to structure the hours when I'm awake. Fixed routines help: coffee in the morning, a hot meal at lunchtime, a cup of tea in the afternoon. Sport in the evening. I fill the time in between with reading, writing in my logbook and solving Sudoku puzzles. I reach the trade wind zone and can finally steer a westerly course. Now it doesn't just feel like I'm travelling faster. After two and a half weeks, a new phase begins. The reason is that the distance to the finish line is less than 1,000 nautical miles. I spontaneously dress up as a pirate and celebrate the three-digit mark euphorically in front of the Gopro camera. Only 999 miles to go! Even though many sailors don't sail such a distance in a year, for me it's the start of the final spurt.
In the remaining days, I often visualise my arrival in Martinique. I imagine green mountainsides, palm beaches and turquoise-coloured water under a cloudless sky. The reality is different. On day 27 at sea, the visibility first decreases more and more, then a squall, a heavy squall, hits me and my boat. Just before midnight, I reach the Sainte Anne anchorage in pitch darkness. Hundreds of white lanterns all around give me a first inkling that the peace and quiet and solitude are now over. I lower the anchor, open another beer and then fall into a deep sleep.
My arrival has not gone unnoticed. Mathias and Luisa from the "Wanderling" invite me to breakfast. I had got to know Mathias as a skipper on a charter boat in France. Now he and his girlfriend are travelling long distances on a small boat with modest means. They are not the only people I meet over the next two months. Two months in which I travelled to several islands, sometimes alone, sometimes accompanied. The time for a safe return journey to Europe via the North Atlantic only begins in mid-April.
Saint Lucia, Bequia, Mustique and the Tobago Cays gradually find their way into the logbook. There I also find the turquoise-coloured water I have been longing for, even turtles swim next to my "Queen". While snorkelling on the outer reef, sharks and barracudas come into view. In the evening, I enjoy the almost obligatory lobster dinner on the beach in the company of a crew friend. Back in Martinique, I meet up with an old acquaintance. Stefan also wants to return to Europe soon with his Oceanis 38, and he is also alone on board. At the same time, we sail north to Sint Maarten, the starting point of our second Atlantic crossing. Many sailors with the same destination are meeting there: the Azores.
Back across the Atlantic
I use the time until departure for maintenance work and shopping, I work on my films and in the evenings we meet up at "Lagoonies". Finally, things get serious. Stefan, the larger "Saarena" and I leave Simpson Bay heading north. After just a few nautical miles, the weather changes, squalls come in and waves crash over the deck. Lightning flashes from dark clouds. First on the horizon, then above us. You can literally feel the energy in the air.
The "Saarena" quickly gets away, Stefan and I stay together for a few days. When we hit a lull, he starts the engine and pulls away too. In the calm in the middle of the Atlantic, I inflate my SUP board and paddle out. From a distance, I manage to get some unique shots of the "Queen" in the vast leaden void.
The calm is followed by a storm. It forms to the west of the Azores. My friend and weather advisor Heinz-Dieter navigates me around the worst of it, but I have to survive two fronts with wind speeds of up to 44 knots and waves over three metres high. For a few hours I run off under drift anchor. Then I head back on course. It's only in "Peter's Café Sport" in the Azores that I can review my experiences with Stefan. We came together again a few days before Horta and sailed in side by side - a great experience.
Everyone in the Azores is celebrating their arrival in Europe. But there is still a long, difficult leg ahead, first with a calm, then with a strong wind front. Once again I have to deploy the drift anchor. My old boat bravely runs away from the waves. We approach the English Channel. I'm about to breathe a sigh of relief when it happens. I'm lying in the saloon writing a message to my daughter. All of a sudden, the boat keeps going over. Objects fly through the cabins. Startled, I wait for the moment when the "Queen" will right itself again. She does, although it feels like an eternity later. It is something like the dramatic conclusion to my journey. It stays with me for quite a while, especially because the knockdown came without any warning.
That leaves the epilogue: I reach IJmuiden along the English, then the French, Belgian and Dutch coasts. West of Zeeland, another strong wind comes up. I'm exhausted, my mind is tired. The last few miles get longer and longer. Eventually it's done. Shortly before the sheltering piers, I am farewelled by one last wave running over the boat. Then suddenly calm. I find a place in the marina that I had left eight months earlier. On the outside, I'm the same as I was then. On the inside, however, there is a quiet sense that the journey has changed me, that it has taken away my insecurities and provided answers. Even if I can't really grasp it all at the moment of arrival.
