Not that we didn’t try. Leaving Velas, we popped outside the marina and realized, though it had been windy in the protected basin, that in the open water, the dogs were getting completely blown off their chains. Worse, it was blowing southeast at a staunch 25 knots with higher gusts, basically the direction we needed to go. There was a ripping seaway building and waves crashing against the exposed shoreline, sending plumes of spray high into the air. Unlike the previous day, there was now no doubt we were in the middle of the tempestuous Atlantic. Still, it takes a lot for me to get the hint, so we hoisted a deeply reefed main and attempted to claw upwind. After all, we needed to see Terceira! But as we crashed and rolled, with solid waves burying the foredeck, it was readily apparent we’d be in for an ordeal, and at least a 10-hour one at that. So we bailed out and returned to São Jorge. The women were visibly relieved, and secretly, so was I. “Discretion is the better part of valor,” said Ian. He was, of course, correct.