Where is Royce? Click to sail along! ⛵

Where is Royce? Click to sail along! ⛵

Where is Royce? Click to sail along! ⛵

Where is Royce? Click to sail along! ⛵

Where is Royce? Click to sail along! ⛵

15:14, local. I’m sitting down on the portico of the Santa Catalina Hotel on the “Euro” tropical Spanish island of Las Palmas. My fourth cappuccino in fewer days, and as many as I’ve enjoyed in four years, is on its way. There is soft violin music, accompanied by a warm breeze, wafting along the open air patio. This hotel. Tara I and just watched the latest Yellowstone spin off, 1923, and I’m being transported to the hotel royalty might have visited during their Safari at the turn of the last century. I’ll keep my eye out for Spencer Dutton.

I left you yesterday in a cafe at Gatwick, where I was trying to wash away the taste of my English breakfast, and clear away the cobwebs of jet leg, with…well, a cappuccino. I caught my flight aboard EasyJet, Europe’s version of Spirit. Aboard, I had an entire exit row to spread out, but was woken up mid-flight by a belligerent guy complaining about a drunk traveller at the back of the plane who had hit on his wife. Did I say Spirit? I meant Carnival Cruise line.

Despite the excitement, I was able to finish several chapters of the novel I’m engrossed in, A Ladder to the Sky. The book is set originally in Nazi Germany, and as we fly over the coast of Africa’s northwest tip, I notice Casablanca show up on the map below us. The WWII reference is not lost on me, and it finally hits me that I’m about to land, after several hours aboard multiple flights, on an island in the Atlantic, ripe with historical significance and sailing lore.

After several minutes of watching families retrieve their luggage, engrossed once again in my novel, I look up to realize that I am standing alone by the turnstile, bagless. Upon learning from a Spanish-speaking info attendant that I must proceed to office number 5 to make a claim for my missing bag, I am reminded of the patience I’m about to lose with my belongings. But after passing through another set of doors, I enter a large room with multiple baggage claims, one in which holding my “lost luggage”. Blood pressure, patience, and clean underwear restored, I stroll confidently through customs and into the taxi line.

Though my taxi driver spoke un poquito Ingles, it’s clear he is an avid F1 racing fan, because the 13 miles to my hotel is covered in under 10 minutes. Unable to tell him to slow down, I engage in deep breathing exercises in the back, hoping my adventure and life, doesn’t end before I even sight the ocean. All is forgotten, as we turn onto the hallowed, and well-lit, palm-tree lined grounds of the hotel. Any doubt once had in hiring a travel agent has long since passed - my dear friend, Courtney, scored big on finding accommodations for this weary traveller. I now see where “las Palmas” earned her name - the gorgeously lit palms decorating the entrance to the Santa Catalina Hotel are magical.

After exchanging some dollars for Euros upon checking in, I’m able to rid myself of Mario Andretti, whose credit card machine is as broken as his brake pedal and English. I tipped him handsomely, and bid him adios.

30 minutes later I was showered, and enjoying a glass of wine and the local catch, while live piano music accented the fountain in the courtyard. A 9:30 dinner reservation didn’t seem out of the norm, and I was reminded of Spain’s appetite for their late-night meals. The wine, music, cheese cake, and travel finally hit me, and I retired to bed around 11, absolutely exhausted.

After a 2am Melatonin, tricking my body back into this new time zone, I enjoyed a good night’s sleep and was bright-eyed at 9am. A quick splash on the face, brushing, and clean outfit, and I made my way down to the complimentary buffet overlooking the courtyard. Fresh OJ, cappacino, crepes and a homemade omelette were a perfect start to this sunny day. The only dark spot in the day was caused by my novel’s antagonist so I abruptly stowed my Kindle, wrapped up my meal, and headed out on the town.

A quick search on my map showed that there seemed to be action, and a narrowing of the island where the Atlantic could be seen nearly on both sides, by walking a couple miles from the hotel. Over the next 2 hours, I put almost 7 miles under foot. I enjoyed getting lost in the excitement of the city. Like my trip to Stockholm, I was amazed at how clean the streets appeared. Although the narrow roads were lined with cars, and motorcycles and buses zipped along dodging pedestrians and bikers alike, I was impressed with the cleanliness and general neatness to everything.

Europe has a knack for appearance and culture. Every other block played host to a sidewalk cafe where old men and dogs sat quietly, sipping their espressos, smoking their cigarettes, and greeting their neighbors. The language barrier made me feel like a quiet observer of everything, unnoticed and uninterrupted by the locals.

I darted down side streets, alleyways, and never once felt threatened, lost or nervous. The one “seedy” observation I made was a sex shop next door to a Thai Massage parlor. And as if to balance out any notion of shenanigans, the police station was across the street, keenly aware of its neighbor’s goings on.

My tour ended with a stroll down the pier, across from my hotel, where I spotted my accommodations across the Atlantic, “Falken”. She is a gorgeous vessel, clearly built to stretch her legs rather than comfort her patrons. The cockpit is massive, given her length of 65 feet, appropriately designed to allow a full crew to be working the sails during an ocean race. Six of her kind were made, to conduct a round-the-world race in 1999. After running the race, all were sold off, or found their way into disrepair. Falken was purchased by 59 North last year (the company through which I’m sailing) and refitted back to her original racing glory, with a few creature comforts added belowdecks, I’m told.

I didn’t board her, but yelled out to one of the mates I noticed above decks, glued to her phone.

“Are you sailing 59 North?”, I inquired across the railing.
“Yes” came her reply, with a small smile.
“I’m Royce. I’m on passage with you!”
Nothing.
“Do you need any help?” I asked, hoping to be of some assistance, or curry favor that I could turn into a better bunk, healthier rations or some other upper hand on the remaining crew.
“No.”
“What’s your name, by the way?” I asked, clearly getting nowhere.
“Ella.”
“Well, Ella, I’ll see you tomorrow”
“Ok”

And in defeat, I snapped a couple photos, and walked back down the pier in the direction of my hotel, and misplaced dignity.

Back at the hotel, I donned my swimming suit and headed to the pool. A Caesar salad, dip in the salt water pool, and a few rays later, and I was ready for my afternoon coffee. Which brings us up to speed.

My phone has been alerting me to the arriving crew. We started a What’s App message a few weeks ago, and as people arrive, plans are being made to grab dinner, cocktails, and officially kick off this passage. Staton, who hails from Seattle (thank goodness for the alliteration or I would never learn these clown’s names), seems to be most in sync with my inappropriate comments and desiring of a night out on the town. I just hope the rest of the crew can fall in line - we don’t want a mutiny on shore.