The sun’s rays stream in through the hatches, and I inevitably wake up. I glance at my watch—it’s not even six in the morning. I climb out of my bunk, go up on deck, and take in my surroundings in the bright sunlight. Yesterday, when I arrived, it was completely dark, and I couldn’t make out a thing. By moonlight, I could make out the outline of the small island where I’m anchored, but generally speaking, at night you lose your sense of distance and size.
The sun casts a brick-orange glow on the rock face that forms the island. According to the chart, it’s about 43 meters high. The buoy I’m tied to is quite close to the reef, about 2 or 3 boat lengths away. At night, when I arrived, all I could hear were the waves crashing against the reef, and I felt as if I were about to run aground and leave the Sofía up there. Now, in the light of day, everything seems easier. The whole surroundings are bathed in a beautiful color as the sun rises. It’s a sure thing: I take my coffee up on deck and, as I clear my head, I sip it.
Today I’m going to sail 12 miles to move to the main anchorage, near the capital of Mayotte. I should go through the official entry process for the country. Last night, as I was entering the lagoon, I notified the authorities of my intention to spend the night at the buoy and complete the paperwork the following day. The nautical guides say it’s advisable to notify the Port Authority of every move you make. Mayotte is dealing with an illegal immigration problem, and this way, they have better control over the area.
I weigh anchor and set course for Dzaoudzi. We’re sailing against the wind and the current at a speed of 4 knots. Since we’re inside the lagoon, between the outer reef and the island, the sea is calm and there are no waves to slow us down. There’s a channel with lateral buoys marking the correct course between the reefs. I sail along the northeastern side of the island, noticing some buildings on the coast. I pass a small commercial port on the starboard side and, little by little, make my way through the channel until I reach the anchorage. The bay is full of small boats and sailboats, all moored to buoys. I take the Sofía for a spin around the bay to check out the best spot to anchor. There are quite a few boats beached on the shore, and I see a couple of masts sticking out of the water. In 2024, Cyclone Chido left a trail of destruction in its wake. The depth ranges from 18 to 20 meters. I’ll be dropping 80 meters of chain, so I’ll need plenty of space to have a good swing and stay calm. I choose an area a little further away from all the other boats and with good access to shore via the dinghy.
I inflate the boat, attach the motor, grab my documents and passport, and head ashore to legally enter Mayotte. I go to the Port Authority, fill out some paperwork, and they take me to the airport so that Immigration and Customs can process my entry. It’s all done in about an hour. I walk back from the Port Authority offices to the Sofía, but first I stop at a restaurant to eat and celebrate the successful crossing from the Seychelles. I devour some chicken skewers with a delicious sweet-and-sour sauce. You really appreciate a good meal after several weeks of sailing. And the fact is, sailing around the world is teaching me—among many other things—to appreciate the things we take for granted as normal. Under the midday sun, I head back to the boat after driving along a narrow road hugging the coast for 30 minutes. I spend the afternoon tending to things aboard the Sofía and resting.
I sleep for 7 straight hours—a luxury for a solo sailor. I go out on deck, and it’s a spectacular day: the sun is shining, and there isn’t a single cloud in the entire sky. I make myself a post-crossing breakfast and start drawing up a to-do list to get the Sofía ready to set sail again. This time, breakfast consists of toast with butter and cheese, an apple, coffee, and oatmeal with nuts and chocolate. Yesterday I finished my last banana from the Seychelles.
After breakfast, I launch the boat and head to the laundromat; in the meantime, I’m going to take a walk around the area. I walk through the town’s streets. It’s situated in a valley between three low mountains, but the streets are all steep. Because of the 2024 cyclone disaster, many houses are under reconstruction and others are quite damaged. Many houses are built with sheet metal, while others, however, are made of concrete and brick but are in poor condition. The children are happily playing in the streets, running around with their friends, and many ride bikes in small groups of three or four. Yesterday, at the immigration office, they advised me not to walk alone after sunset and not to go on a hike I had planned to a volcano without a guide. So far, I haven’t felt threatened or unsafe at any time.
One of the downsides of sailing alone is that you’re often limited because there are situations that require more than one person. Most of the time I manage as best I can, but in these kinds of situations I’d rather not take any chances—especially at this stage of the trip. Now that the countdown has begun (there are still many miles to go, but compared to the ones I’ve already sailed, they’re few), I just hope everything ends as well as it has so far. I’ll never tire of saying that the Sofía is doing amazingly well.
