Liam’s Take
Stayed another day. The forecast’s clean but I wanted a proper check before rounding Cape St. Vincent. It’s not a tricky headland, but it’s known for making easy things hard when you’re not paying attention.
Started the morning with gear checks. Winch oil. Reefing lines. The lazy jacks were catching again — I trimmed the port side and re-threaded the bag clips. Ryan watched for a bit, then vanished with the laundry bag.
I found the real showers, finally — tucked past the fuel dock behind the chandlery, keycard access, actual water pressure. First one that didn’t smell like wet plywood since A Coruña.
Spent most of the day doing little jobs. Not urgent, but things that hang around and get louder over time. Re-tensioned the rig, flushed the outboard. Downloaded updated charts in the marina café while pretending to drink the world’s worst espresso.
Dinner was his idea. Some place near the beach — white tablecloths, too many wine glasses, menu with actual punctuation. Ryan said it was the “best steak in Lagos” according to three separate strangers and one woman who worked at the laundrette.
It was good. Not cheap. But good. Cooked rare, no questions asked. The waitress didn’t write anything down and still got it right.
We walked back slow. Breeze building from the west. Tide was low, dock lines creaking. Something’s shifting. I’ll check the barometer again in the morning.
Ryan’s Take
I think we stayed because neither of us could admit we needed one more day.
Liam had his list — deck fittings, download charts, fix the annoying thing with the boom that I’m not allowed to touch. I did laundry. It felt weird folding socks in a room full of German sailors who iron their shorts.
The showers were behind some door that looked locked but wasn’t. Best water pressure in weeks. I stayed too long. Came out dizzy and clean, like I’d been reborn as a person with standards.
We got coffee in the marina café. Liam stared at routing apps. I watched a couple on a Beneteau fight quietly over bread rolls. She said he didn’t know how to “let go of the wheel.” I felt that.
Around five, I suggested dinner. Not a pub. Not pizza. Something we’d remember. He raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue. We walked up toward the cliffs and found the place a Kiwi girl had scribbled on my palm the night before.
It was called Casinha do Petisco — two rooms, packed, smelled like fire and garlic. We ordered steaks. They came fast, bleeding, perfect. I asked for sparkling water. Liam gave me a look. I ordered red wine instead.
We didn’t talk about the next leg. Just ate. Let the silence stretch. There’s a kind that feels heavy, and a kind that feels earned. This was the second one.
After, we walked back through the marina. The wind had shifted. Flags twitching. Everyone tightening lines just a little. Like the water knows something we don’t.
Tomorrow we round the cape.
