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Pride of Baltimore II sailed from Baltimore, Ireland on the evening of October 4. A relatively quiet day was spent on the hook watching the weather, waiting for the expected change that would open the way for us to sail south. After the previous day's thumping, such a day was in order. The crew busied themselves readying the vessel for sea in a calm, deliberate manner, rather than the brisk, business like pace more typical of a morning departure. At 1700 hours, our guests arrived on Sherkin Island by ferry, and Chris Landers fetched them aboard in Hippo, the ship's tender.

Once clear of the land, a fresh Force 6 established itself out of the west. We double-reefed the main in darkness and added the jib. Pride II danced along rambunctiously. A large sou'westerly swell, ten to twelve feet, remained from the day before and rapped against the hull without mercy. Quite a few people were feeding the fishes that night. And then the midships head broke down, so John had to fix that.

But the southerly swell no longer had a wind behind it and was not the thug of yesterday. Despite the occasional slap to the headrig and kick in the ribs, Pride II charged along the ridges of the newer westerly sea at eight or nine knots, sometimes ten, sometimes eleven. Yes, it is time we were south. The ship knows it; we know it. By morning the wind had veered a little north, and by next evening 200 miles separated us from Ireland. We were well on our way. Did any of our ancestors pass this way, I wonder?

With the exception of one day, when we motored across the dead zone in the high pressure that now dominated the Bay of Biscay, Pride II was blessed by strong favorable winds all the way down to Portugal. After only three days, we crossed the latitude of Cape Finisterre, Spanish for "Land's End." Finisterre is the extreme northwest corner of Spain. It represents a sort of pale against the worst of the autumn gales. The Bay of Biscay, just to the north, is defined by unforgiving land on three sides. The only opening faces west, dead to windward. Biscay is a notorious cul-de-sac for sailing ships and is avoided by sailors unless they have business there. We do not. Once south of Finisterre and Biscay, we can expect milder weather.     Map by Mapquest.com

To our delight, the vessel charged on southwards, just seaward of the Traffic Separation Zone that guides shipping along the western edge of the Iberian Peninsula. All the world's shipping coming or going from Western Europe by way of the Mediterranean, the Straits of Gibralter, and the Suez Canal, passes this way. It's a lot of big boats. The vessel stormed along in a building sea, a trail of foam whispering excitedly off her lee quarter. Then, abruptly, we rounded the Cape and entered the protected roadstead off the town of Cascais.

Mention the port of Lisbon to any deepwater sailor, merchant mariner, navy, or otherwise, and you will invariably be answered with a sigh and a smile, and no details. Why this should be, who can say? The city is heaped upon the surrounding hillsides overlooking the north bank of the River Tagus. A jumble of terra cotta roof tops clamors down the slopes in a wondrous cascade. This architectural cacophony is punctuated by belfries and towers, and crowned by the ancient citadel of Sao Jorge.

Plying the streets of the old city, one quickly sees that the Portuguese have a penchant for ornamental tile, most typically blue and white. Beauty is bestowed upon the most pedestrian structure through the ubiquitous application of tile scenes and motifs. There are maritime scenes, of course, and images of daily life from long ago. In other instances, the tiles form patterns like an oriental rug. Imagine your hardware store or local cafe so decorated. Like the rest of the Iberian Peninsula, Portugal was once ruled by the Arabs, and the continuity with that earlier period is evident in language, taste, and art.

Raising one's head, one can admire the decorative wrought iron balconies and balustrades that accent every window, tier upon tier, above the shadowed streets. At every intersection is a monument or fountain, perhaps no longer functioning that celebrates some moment or person in Portugal's past. Even the sidewalk, a thing whose lot in life is to meet the soles of our feet, is an expressive mosaic of dark and light stones that ripple and flow through the corridors of the city, bearing human vessels upon a current of history, like ships coming and going upon the tide in the River Tagus.

Upon closer inspection, many of these lovely antique buildings are not in good repair. Gaps in the precious tile work startle the passerby like a nicotine-stained tooth in the midst of a sensual smile. Lisbon was once described to me as possessing an aura of "gentile poverty." While I would not describe Lisboa as impoverished, there is an overwhelming flavor of past grandeur mixed with a dignified earthiness that is more appealing than is easy to describe. The food is great, the people are kind. You oughta go.

During our short stay at Lisboa, Pride II enjoyed a cozy berth at the Doca de Alcantara, just west of the city center. The crew moved ahead with routine maintenance. The success of any long passage is dependent on the readiness of the rig and the sails. Since our sails are in good order, the focus of our efforts was on the rig. The crew each had a day to explore the city and most came back with favorable reviews. One night, the gang ventured into Alfama, the old district, and took in a performance of Fado, an extremely emotional form of traditional music and singing that is unique to Portugal. The same night, the Second Mate and I were treated to an exquisite traditional Portuguese dinner by our host, Mr. Carlos Vasconcelos, that left no stone unturned in the realm of local cuisine or beverage.

A day or so after our arrival, the schooner Brilliant, out of Mystic, Connecticut, came into port and tied up beside us. She and her company have been our American companions throughout this international year, and we were glad to see them again. Christine Alberi, the Mate, was a shipmate of ours last year. The skipper, George Moffet, has been running Brilliant for years. When one of our crew was beset by injury, the good people of Brilliant provided a safe house until he could rejoin us in Madeira. Many thanks.

Though the transatlantic has been looming for some time and a stop at Madeira still awaits, to me Lisboa represents the casting off from Europe. The House of the Atlantic will be our address for some time to come.

Watch Below,
Capt. Dan Parrott