Here are some pictures from the recent Royal Clipper crossing. We had the wonderful opportunity off of Casablanca to meet up with one of our Captain Sergey Tunikov’s previous ships, the Kruzenstern. He said that he had spent 12 years on her as a captain. We sailed towards each other and then we slowed to allow them to turn and rejoin us. We then sailed together side by side for over an hour. Their crew then sent us pictures of how we looked to them. – Terry, “The Travelinguy”

We came across this wonderful review of an ocean crossing on Cruise Critic that was submitted by guest “johnwillimas,” and we wanted to share it with all of our Star Clippers fans.

Transatlantic Sensations on Star Flyer

I’ve read a few reviews of voyages with Star Clippers on Cruise Critic and I thought it was time to try to sum up why this quirky cruise line really works. It’s not for everybody, that’s certain but the question is, “Is it right for you?”

My wife and I are repeat travellers with Star Clippers now. We’ve been on all three ships, once on a coast hopping trip up the Yucatan (sadly no longer one of their voyages) and three times transatlantic.

Yes, I know what you’re thinking; “What do you find to DO on a ship that small for seventeen days with only a single one day port stop?”

Well, here’s what we did……

* Looked out at an empty sea and had the delight of knowing we were the only people from way over there to way over there.
* Watched flying fish and tried to guess how far they’d go before they dropped back into the water.
* Looked up into a starry sky and saw the Milky Way sweep across the heavens.
* Sunbathed, dodging the stripes from shadows of the masts and the rigging.
* Slid across the deck on sunbeds when the ship rolled.
* Woke up to the quiet of bowling along with only the sails driving us.
* Celebrated 41 years of marriage in the best place on Earth – miles from anywhere!
* Got used to walking like a pirate on the ship to cope with the heel, this ship sails properly as often as it can.
* Got used to walking like a pirate on dry land when we got to the Azores after 12 days at sea.

Continued … To read the rest of his review, click HERE and visit the Cruise Critic site.

Here are some shots of our 34 days from Tahiti to Panama. What a one time experience for all. — Ed Swafford

The Azores, Sao Miguel island—Wednesday, 21 April 2010, all day

A view from the Crow's Nest.

After 11 days at sea, we are in the Azores, Sao Miguel Island, Ponta Delgada.

The Star Clipper line has arranged an island tour for two buses of passengers—one for those who speak English and one for those who speak German—to the village of Sete Cidades (Seven Cities). The nearby volcano-formed lake contains water that is blue on one side of a bridge and green on the other side. The reality has to do with the way sunlight hits the water, the tour guide says. But legend tells of two star-crossed lovers, a princess and a poor farmer, whose marriage is forbidden. With her blue eyes, she cries tears of blue to form one side of the lake, and from his green eyes comes the green water on the other side.

After the tour, I walk about two miles to find a massage therapist who the tour guide has recommended. Against the odds, I am able to book an appointment for later that afternoon.

Perfect. I find a barbershop, thanks to incomplete directions from a patron of a small eatery who speaks only a little bit of English. The barberia is on a small street near the center of town with no significant sign to mark its location. The barber speaks no English, but we both know the reason I’m there. The only real question is how much to cut off, and we communicate that through hand motions.

Then, I hustle back to Royal Clipper to climb the mast to the lower crow’s nest, about 10 meters above the deck. This endeavor challenges my fear of heights, but there is no time for trepidation—I’ve got a massage appointment to keep and no way to call the therapist—so I climb into the safety harness and clamber up the ratlines. Three others are there ahead of me: Robin from Liverpool, Doris from Germany who loves to travel by ship, and 93-year-young Joan. I enjoy the view and snap some photos while Paul, the young man from The Netherlands, joins us. Then Dave, manning the belay line below, says someone has to come down to make room for another, so I volunteer. On the deck that features the Tropical Bar, I grab a bite of food and water from the afternoon buffet then rush to the massage.

After another two-mile walk, I arrive at exactly the appointed minute. Patricia (pronounced Pah-treece-ee-ah) doesn’t speak English. But, as with the barber, we both know the purpose of this appointment. The massage is good, as I had expected, but the massage oil was exceptional: sweet and silky, it warmed under Patricia’s hands on my back and legs. Afterward, I asked Sophia, the receptionist, how I can buy a bottle. “We make it ourselves, and we don’t sell it,” she says. A pity? No, a temporary delight, worth sailing the ocean to attain.

That night, aboard Royal Clipper, we are entertained by Group Folclorico Ilha Verda, 25 musicians and dancers from Ponta Delgado, men and women who invite the ship’s passengers to get up and dance with them.

Dolphins — Monday, April 19, 2010, 0800

Three dolphins, two of them breaking the surface of the water, romp within two meters of the Royal Clipper’s hull.

Ximena is leading six of us on a fast-pace walk around all parts of the ship as part of our daily wake-up, work-out regimen. We are on the foredeck when a crewman says, “Dolphins.” Ximena leads us to the port bow, and that is the end of the walk.

The dolphins, perhaps a dozen of them, are romping in the surf of our bow wake, seemingly pushed by the thrust of water ahead of the ship, inches to no more than four feet in front of or beside the prow. At first glance, it appears the ship could run over them. One veers sharply to the left, falling aft 10 to 15 meters, then turns abruptly and races ahead of the ship. Others leap forward about five meters and, in unison, leap above the surface to gulp oxygen.

In seconds, they let the ship catch up to them again, romping in the thrust inches below the bow wake’s foam. One rolls over, exposing its white underbelly but without diminishing its speed.

“They are so fast, and I can’t even see them move their fins,” I say to Mariano, the ship’s marine biologist. “That’s because they are highly efficient,” he responds.

We watch them for, perhaps, ten minutes. Then they are gone. This is a sign that we are getting closer to the Azores. “We’ll see them again,” says Mariano.

Robert lifts his empty glass to show he managed to drink an inch of water with a holey straw during Pirate Night celebrations.

Those who have made the crossing before came prepared with pirate hats, striped shirts, tattered leggings, and scarves. One woman has a fake parrot perched atop a finger of her right hand. I happened to have a gold bandana. Pablo, my cabin steward, has loaned me a foam saber with an orange-and-green hilt.

In the open-air Tropical Bar, Ximena calls for five contestants to play pirate games. Three jump to join in. No one else, not even those dressed for the occasion, move. Ximena calls my name, and I step forward. Then, another man rounds out the five.

The first game is a test of strength: to hold a diving belt with 5 kilograms of weights at arm’s length. The first to falter is out. Ximena counts to three in English, and we raise our arms. The contestant next to me, Uschi, is a woman at least two decades younger than I and strong. Her belt has less weight than that of the rest of us, all men. I look to the right and the left; these guys, Paul, Ronald, and another man I didn’t get to know, are all bigger than I, their biceps larger by quite a bit. I will have to rely on breathing and willpower if I am to prevail. Right. Tell that to my quivering arm. But, just as I think I can’t hold out a moment longer, Paul drops his arm; he is out. My arm drops immediately afterward, but I am still in the game.

The second contest requires a blindfold, and there is talk of walking the plank. Instead, each of us is handed a string to which a pencil is attached at the opposite end. A narrow-neck wine bottle is stood upright near our feet. Art, a man from the audience who I had not yet met, comes forward to be my partner. My role is to follow his instructions as he tells me to raise the string, move it right or left or forward or back, then lower it. The deck sways beneath our feet. I can feel wind blowing across the deck. This is not skill but pure luck. When my pencil drops into the wine bottle, I can’t feel it enter. But Art tells me to let go of the string, and I do. I listen, blindfolded. Two others are still striving to accomplish the feat. I am the second to have done it. I have survived to play another round.

The third contest is a race from a chair on one side of the deck, around a chair on the other side of the deck, back to the first chair—with an inflated balloon between our knees. If we drop the balloon or touch it after the race begins, we have to return to the starting chair and begin again. Ximena counts to three in Spanish, and we begin. I start by hopping but don’t like the jarring effect, so I waddle forward. The other two contestants, Uschi and Ronald are ahead of me. But Uschi drops her balloon. Then does Ronald. I am in the lead and round the chair on the other side of the deck as they go back to start over. The balloon feels comfortable between my legs. My confidence grows. I pick up speed, rhythm, waddle. I cruise into the finish line, the only contestant to not retreat and begin again. After dropping his balloon three times, Ronald comes in second. Uschi is eliminated.

David, a member of the ship’s Sports Team, pours about one inch of water into a pair of short cocktail glasses, making sure that each has the same amount. He sets a straw in each glass. Ximena explains that the winner of this contest will be the person who can drink the water in the glass, through the straw, first. Ronald and I turn toward each other. This looks too easy. David hands us the glasses. “You can’t touch the straw,” Ximena instructs. The wind is blowing the straw around in the glass; the first challenge will be to secure it between my lips. Ximena counts to three in German. I suck on the straw; practically no water reaches the top. “The straws have little holes,” Ximena tells the audience, now laughing. “It is a matter of who has the best lungs,” she says in her Mexican accent. With that, I realize that I am bent over the glass, so I stand taller, taking a deeper breath and bringing a greater volume of water to my mouth. I draw again and again and again. The level in the glass is going down—slowly. I draw again and again and again. The last few drops remain. I know that Ronald is beside me, but I think not of him and only of the force of my inhalation. The last of the water disappears from my glass; it is in my mouth. I swallow. I raise my arm high in front of me and upturn the glass. Not a drop falls out. The crowd applauds. My victory is secure.

Ximena tells me that my prize is either the drink of the day from the Tropical Bar or a Royal Clipper keychain. I choose the keychain, a memento of this victory at sea.