Ponta Delgada, the Azores

I haven’t witnessed very many sunrises in my life since I am not an early riser, but after six days crossing the Atlantic without sight of land the prospect of seeing land, even if it would be a lonely island 900 miles and two more days at sea from the nearest other land, was enough of a motive to get me out of bed for an early morning docking at Ponta Delgada in the Potuguese Azores.

In spite of the fairly luxurious life aboard the Azamara Journey, its lavish meals and continuous entertainment, the previous six days at sea with nothing but water in sight 360 degrees around the ship, were enough to make one almost identify with The Ancient Mariner of Coleridge’s poem of that name, or wonder why Columbus’ sailors didn’t mutiny as they passed this very way in the opposite direction without a clue as to where they were going or how long it would take to get there.

I wasn’t expecting much of the Azores. The only other time I had seen one of the Azores was fifty-one years earlier, and that time it was only a distant fog-shrouded vague outline rising out of nowhere that my ship was passing after ten days out at sea with another four days to go. The only other sign of life we had seen in all that time was an old freighter we passed one day.

A lot of the other passengers must have felt the way I did because several of them were already up on Deck 10 when I got there just as the sun was emerging from behind a mountain straight ahead as our ship entered the breakwater of the port at Ponta Delgada.

As the ship docked church bells solemnly rang out: not to welcome us but to announce Mass, for this was Sunday.

The first limited view of Ponta Delgada was itself a solemn one. A church with one severe square tower, few windows and a stark contrast of unadorned white walls, black roof and black trim dominated a cluster of plain buildings of similarly stark contrasts.


The sun rose quickly, revealing a cloudless blue sky and with it a far more cheerful panorama of a sweeping esplanade bordering a pleasant marina with an old fort at the far end and a sprinkling of ancient church towers and modern highrises poking above the mostly two or three storey closely packed buildings of this city that dates back to before 1546.




As I walked about this small city (population 21,000 ) according to the ship’s newsletter) I was charmed.

It had the narrow, cobbled streets typical of ancient European towns.

Picturesque City Hall, fountains and monuments:



Churchgoers chatted as they spilled out of the massive old front doors as Mass ended. Primly dressed seniors mingled with young families.

Waiters busily arranged tables at a sidewalk cafe for the churchgoers who would presently cross the narrow cobbled street to get to their favorite table.

An open carriage plodded by pulled by white horses.

Tourists pointed, posed and snapped pictures.

Above, and permeating all the happy chatter, were the deep peals of the churchbells echoing between the walls fronting the narrow streets.

Later that Sunday evening as The Journey passed the breakwater and headed once more into the open Atlantic bound for Lisbon, three nights and two days away, the passengers were treated to a dramatic episode of skilful seamanship. It is the custom in maritime navigation for a local Pilot, who knows the safe passage in and out of the harbor, to take control of the ship to safely guide it in or out. On the way out, after the ship leaves his jurisdiction, he transfers at sea, while both vessels are moving, from the large ship to his much smaller Pilot boat by jumping on to it. This is dangerous at the best of times because the two vessels are never attached to each other and they keep moving forward while they are rolling and pitching in opposing directions and constantly changing their vertical movements. In a rough sea it is extremely risky . There is just one split second for the pilot to transfer safely under those conditions. Such were the conditions as it grew dark that evening, and we had a grandstand view of the event. Sometimes the deck of the Pilot boat in the photo was completely awash in the roiled white water as it plunged deep into some of the large swells.