We pushed off from Punta del Este, Uruguay, and pointed the bow east toward Cape Town, South Africa—another ocean, another horizon, another long stretch of water to cross. This time, the Atlantic greeted us with the unmistakable chill of winds born in Antarctica. Even bundled in layers, you could feel the cold coming from the far south, riding on every gust.
Despite the bite in the air, we made it a fast crossing. 3,834 nautical miles in just over 15 days, finishing 4th in the race and holding onto 4th place overall. It was the kind of leg where you could sense our crew settling into a stronger rhythm—more confident, more capable, more synchronized.
One small personal victory: I didn’t get seasick this leg!
Another: I’m finally starting to feel comfortable helming under spinnaker—something that felt impossibly chaotic just a few weeks ago.
We had our share of real ocean conditions, facing 4–5 meter seas that lifted the boat like an elevator and poised it on top of the wave ready to surf. My personal record got the boat up to nineteen knots though others on my crew bested that by another five knots.
Out there, the scale of the world changes. Waves become walls. The wind becomes a voice. And land feels like a rumor. That is, until the day Table Mountain appeared.
We spotted it—faint, blue-grey, unmistakable—from 60 miles offshore. After two weeks of nothing but sea and sky, that outline on the horizon felt almost mythic.
Our arrival into Cape Town had all the drama of good sailing storytelling. We rode strong wind to Table Bay, feeling fast and confident… then slid right into the wind shadow of the mountain and stopped dead, drifting aimlessly. Eventually the breeze found us again, and then strong wind pushed the final miles across the finish line.
And waiting for me?
My wife and a close friend, and a few days later my brother and sister—all of them having flown halfway around the world to meet me on the dock. After weeks of boat meals, my brother cooking his famous Chicken Cordon Bleu for some of my crew felt like a Michelin-star moment.
Their visit reminded me just how important family truly is, and how lucky I am to have a wife who supports this enormous, crazy adventure. Saying goodbye again, though… that hit hard. I won’t see them for five more months, not until we reach Seattle. That will be the longest stretch yet, and the weight of that reality is a stark reality as we prepare to cast off again.
Cape Town itself exceeded every expectation.
I climbed Table Mountain, wandered the waterfront, and traveled down to the southernmost point of Africa, where the Atlantic and Indian Oceans meet. There’s something grounding about standing at a place the world has carved its name into.
What has struck me most about South Africa—beyond the landscapes and the food and the history—is the people. Almost everyone I’ve met has been warm, polite, and radiating a kind of effortless friendliness that feels rare in the world. Tonight, when I paid for my dinner, the server—a nice South African woman with the brightest smile—asked if I was leaving soon. I told her we set sail tomorrow for Australia, and she absolutely lit up. She gushed with excitement, asked for my Instagram, and then reached out and took my hand, telling me she was sending her spirit with me to keep me safe. It was such a simple gesture, but it made me smile in a way I’ll remember for a long time.
Now the bow turns east.
The next challenge: The Southern Ocean—a place of long swells, legendary winds, and the kind of raw nature sailors talk about for the rest of their lives.
Australia awaits on the far side.
And so does the next chapter.
