None of my photos do the discomfort of sailing against the Levante justice. The waves are short and steep, we move slow, and the fun level is zero.

October 16, 2025. Nothing compares to the feeling when you want to sleep but can't because you're flying around the cabin. You turn 90 degrees. Wedge yourself between the pillows on one side and the kite equipment on the other, but even that doesn't help. The bow of your ship still slams into the water like concrete. You lift off with your hips first, then your shoulders, and you think of a hundred places you'd rather be right now. It's 2:30 in the morning, and your shift starts in half an hour.

We have suspected that sailing thousand miles from Lagos, Portugal, to Liguria during the fall break wouldn't be easy. That it wouldn't be a leisurely stroll along the bays, but at least it would be doable. And if there's one thing I love about sailing, it's getting to know new shores. After purchasing Asja, we made our first trips in the Baltic Sea and ventured into the Swedish archipelago the following year. Then we moved our boat to the North Sea, sailing from Breskens to London, and last season to the Caribbean. We now live in Switzerland, which also means moving Asja to a marina where we can drive to over the weekends.

Start in Lagos: Asja is launched into the water in the dry dock.

Back on Asja for the first time in ages, with fenders shredded by the Atlantic and canned food from Antigua in the storage, I'm overcome by melancholy. I miss the water, the simplicity and the warmth. The spirit of the ARC Rally, that anything is possible, has been tamped down by the reality on land. And with a little distance, it's astonishing how quickly we swapped one way of life for another. Who knows what would have happened if we'd taken a different path. Why can't humans just live several lives at once? I don't want to dwell on it too long. We have a new destination to go: The Mediterranean.

Our start in Lagos couldn't go better. We get out of the dry dock, the marina, in good shape. Sailing in October is less thrilling as the orcas have migrated from Gibraltar toward the Atlantic. We don't encounter any of them and reach La Línea in less than two days.

The traffic in the Strait of Gibraltar is insane. We weave our way between enormous freighters and tankers. Because of the cheap fuel, this area is one of the world’s top refueling stations for large ships. Countless ancient giants anchor in the bay and pile up on our plotter.

Chaos on our Plotter in the Strait of Gibraltar.

Of course, we also refuel and take a trip to the British overseas territory from Alcaidesa Marina La Linea. We don't take much time. Strong winds are forecast for the coming week. And we know that they will pick up further in the strait off Gibraltar, in this narrow channel. When we entered, there were gusts of fifteen knots more. No, thank you! We have to move on.

At first, we can still sail, but soon we encounter the Levante. It’s an easterly wind that blows when a high-pressure area over the eastern Mediterranean meets a low-pressure area over the Atlantic. The Levante has its advantages as it pushes ships heading west in the right direction.

We have to sail upwind, which means: tacking and motoring. Even so, we only make 3 knots against the wind and current, which is absolutely frustrating. When we do have the current on our side, it's no better. The cross sea with its steep, chaotic waves keeps us awake at night and leaves us and our ship bruised.

The marine in La Linea is located beautifully against the Rock…

… and you can walk across the airport to Gibraltar.

My 3 a.m. shift after a sleepless night brings a surprise: a wagtail has landed on Asja and made a nest in Stella's hat. Perhaps it strayed from its route on its journey south, or the Levante wind blew it out to sea. We are hundreds of miles from the coast, so of course I don't want to chase it away. Since the wagtail is sleeping on the starboard side, I move my night shift to port. I dim the light on my Kindle. It's amazing how such a tiny passenger can influence your movements.

After a few hours, the bird hops across our teak deck like a black-and-white comma. It drinks rainwater from the tank cap and flies off the boat whenever we get too close. It comes back a dozen times, and we've already named it Boomerang when it eventually stops landing with us.

After a stop in northern Mallorca (we have the stunning Sa Calobra bay with its steep cliffs all to ourselves) and a flight under a rumbling sky and lightning, we set our sights on the French coast when a helicopter stops us. The pilots radio us that we are heading for a restricted military area: “Change course to 80 degrees and maintain it for the next ten miles.”

They sent a helicopter because just to get this message through? What an effort. But we have no choice but to obey their command. We turn away from the coast again. Head-on against the wind and current. Sailing to put you off. Shaken and stirred, we reach La Croix Valmer in the South of France.

For a night at anchor on the Cote d’Azur, almost any effort is worth it.

La Croix-Valmer in the off-season is a dream.

It feels like we've stepped out of an action movie and into a painting by Auguste Renoir. Warm air caresses our noses, pine trees line the gentle slopes along the rocky beach, wafting their sweet scent toward us. It's so beautiful, I would have loved to stay a week. And the thought that Asja's new berth isn't far from here makes me happy.

We have a new territory! A new second home where spring arrives earlier, summer stretches longer, and turns into a mild autumn. I can hardly wait to explore the Mediterranean.

Levante vs. Asja

Bermuda Triangle, Azores High