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Outside Magazine April 2003

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DESTINATIONS: The Azores
The Atlantic's Floating Kingdom
A thousand miles from anywhere, the Azores are a natural layover for voyaging sailors and adventurous pilgrims. But beware: the island group's hydrangea-drenched hillsides and mist-shrouded volcanoes may capture your heart forever.

By Paul Bennett


	Sail in, drop out: The north coast of the Azores São Miguel Island (Bob Krist/Corbis)

THE GPS READS 39°32' N, 31°33' W. In real terms, we're 17 days east of Bermuda in the middle of the Atlantic when Flores, the westernmost of Portugal's Azores islands, suddenly appears in the haze. Sheer green cliffs and a spray-spattered shoreline materialize eerily off our bow, as if they've been there all along.

The nine volcanic islands of the Azores are the highest peaks of the Mid-Atlantic Ridge, which separates the European and North American plates. Roughly 2,500 miles east of the United States and 1,000 miles west of Portugal, the islands have been a mid-oceanic rest stop for ships making passage between the Old and New worlds for more than 500 years, since Portuguese sea captain Diogo de Sevilha reportedly discovered them in 1427. In the 19th century, the Azores hit pay dirt when the price of whale oil skyrocketed; by 1830 they were overrun with American whalers who followed the prevailing winds and currents as they chased herds of sperm whales.

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For the beta on the best way to tool around in the Azores, CLICK HERE.

Since the international ban on whaling 21 years ago, cruising sailboats have replaced whalers as the primary visitors to the islands. Each summer an armada of blue-water sailors, emboldened by GPS, Weatherfax, and high-tech emergency equipment, departs the East Coast for the three- to four-week trip across the Atlantic to the Azores, tracing the old whaling routes either as part of an Atlantic circle cruise or on their way to the Mediterranean. Of course, plenty of travelers also arrive via the tarmac, ready to reel in monster tuna, trek the hills, and take in the views without wetting a toe. But visitors who forgo sailing altogether miss the islands' special magic.

One June morning, my wife, Lani, and I leave Bermuda in our 38-foot ketch, Lucy. To relieve the pressure of 17 days of four-hours-on, four-hours-off watches, we've enlisted Lani's brother, David—who's just graduated from college and seems sufficiently aimless—as crew. Our plan is to spend a couple of days on Flores, cruise the rest of the Azores for a few weeks, then push on to the Mediterranean before winter sets in. We assume the islands will be a waypoint rather than a destination.

We know we are mistaken as we tack around the southern end of Flores and bring Lucy to rest among half a dozen other salt-encrusted sailboats in the slate-bottomed harbor of Lajes. Late in the afternoon, we drop anchor beneath the island's precipitous cliffs and, possessed by a powerful craving for a cold beer, row to the fish-stained docks.

The next day, it becomes obvious why this 58-square-mile island is named Flores: The entire side of the ridge above the harbor is sprouting roses and hydrangeas. The hills beckon, and after a quick stop in town to pick up a wheel of sheep cheese and a dollar bottle of local wine, we set off on a cow path that was once the island's main transportation route. To our right, carpets of flowers reach up to a thick cloud cover. To our left, jagged rocks drop to the breakers. Our rubbery legs hobble along for an hour before we all agree that after braving the open ocean for 1,800 nautical miles, it seems stupid to slip off a cliff on our first day ashore. So we choose an outcrop, uncork the wine, and take in the view of Lajes, 800 feet below.

Home to just 550 people, five bars, two markets, and four restaurants that offer dorado and potatoes almost every night, Lajes can be a little limited. After a week and a half of catching up on sleep and drinking enough wine to prop up the economy, we begin thinking about pushing on to the island of Faial. But before we can weigh anchor, Flores erupts into Festa do Emigrante, a blowout party celebrating Azorean emigrants' annual return to the islands, beginning in July. A ferry arrives one afternoon to disgorge a gaggle of youth from neighboring islands. DJs from Amsterdam are flown in with knee-boot-wearing go-go girls. An enormous sound system is erected on a basketball court behind the town hall, and grandmothers, soccer hooligans, priests, and goatherds dance in the open air until early morning.

The highlight of Festa is the running of the bulls. In the Azores, it's a drawn-out affair lasting two hours or more. People drink a lot, and I'm told someone dies every year. I show up at the running with Eddie Harary, a young entrepreneur who recently sold his environmental consulting business in Cincinnati and is now cruising with his girlfriend on their 44-foot catama-ran, Yebo. Eddie is a veteran of the Pamplona running.

"Don't space out," he advises. "Bulls are fast."

The crowd jeers, hollers obscenities, and engages in not so politically correct behavior—such as taunting the bulls.

It's at this moment that I realize I'm spacing out, and when I come to my senses, bull number two is out of his pen and racing directly toward me. I dart for a makeshift wall of shipping palettes. Luckily, number two flashes past me, intent on better game—namely Eddie, who is kicking up some serious turf in an effort to escape. It's pretty obvious, however, that no human can actually outrun a bull, and within a few seconds this one has his hot, snorting snout within inches of Eddie's rear. He dips his chin, and just as an expectant gasp ripples through the crowd, Eddie launches himself over the wall into a bramble of wild roses. A muffled cry rises from the thicket. The crowd cheers ecstatically. Eddie is a hero.

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