Sailing the length of South America with six children: ‘Days became a blur of sea, sunrises, sunsets and nights’

A 5,000-mile passage around South America from Uruguay to Trinidad with her six children was a voyage to savour for Somira SaoSunset on Thunderbird off the South Atlantic coast of Fortaleza, Ceará, Brazil in 2025. Photo: Somira Sao
“Mom, wake up! We’re approaching Cabo Frio.” My daughter’s voice cut through my drowsy thoughts as I dozed in the starboard cabin. I got up immediately, not wanting to miss it. In our 14 years of sailing as a family, it was our fifth time rounding this cape – but the first time we’d see it clearly in daylight with good visibility.
Aboard Thunderbird, our 15m performance cruising trimaran, was my husband, James, and our six children: Tormi (16), Raivo (14), Pearl (12), Zan (9), Jade (6), and Atlas (4).
Time has passed quickly since we last rounded Cabo Frio in 2020. I was pregnant then with my youngest child, heavy with a growing baby and uncertainty. We were sailing south-east from Vitória to Ilhabela, riding the early waves of the pandemic.
Back then it was night. Thunderbird had just cleared the point, and I was on watch with three reefs in the main and a partially rolled-in jib. I remember 30 knot gusts, big seas, the white flash of the lighthouse catching my peripheral vision. I watched the instruments, adjusting the pilot with shifting wind and currents. Even with reduced sail area, we were flying: 11 to 13 knots average, surfing peaks at 17 to 20.
Despite the speed of the boat, the motion of the trimaran was so smooth that the rest of the crew – then all under age 12 – were fast asleep, oblivious, below. Even though we had three cabins that could accommodate six, five kids piled together on the giant family sea bed in the main salon. Jade, the youngest at the time, was curled against me in the corner of my watch seat, her warm weight the only comfort in that tense darkness.
Thunderbird sails north along the South Atlantic coast of Rio Grande do Sul, Brazil. Photo: Somira Sao
Today couldn’t be more different. Warm sun, gentle swells, and the smell of land mixing with salt air. James and Tormi held the morning watch, James studied the plotter. We’d grown into a proper crew over these years. James and I traded two-hour watches while our three oldest handled two-on, four-off rotations. The little ones joined whenever curiosity called them – which was often.
Tormi was watching for hazards, quietly absorbing the scenery of back-lit mountains. Even in grayscale, Cabo Frio’s dramatic stone cliffs erupt from the ocean with Brazil’s characteristic grandeur. As James steered us close to Ilha do Faro, the entire crew appeared in the cockpit, in awe of its massive sea caves and 16m cast iron tower.
As we rounded the point, the sun bathed the eastern side of the cape in morning light. Colours exploded to life as the light revealed vibrant greens and the rich tones of the stone hidden earlier in silhouette. We saw a couple of boats exit bays we had not yet explored. We knew white sand beaches and turquoise waters awaited us there, but we couldn’t stop – our time with Brazilian customs was up and we had pressure to move to new waters.
A sharp sensation hit my stomach just as it had the night before when I watched Rio’s illuminated cityscape drift by in the dark. These iconic landscapes brought back everything we’d experienced living in South America, the dramatic landscapes and people who had made this part of the world feel like home.
Everyone on board Thunderbird contributes while underway. Photo: Somira Sao
Sailing around South America
Over the last five years we’d sailed between Brazil, Uruguay, and Argentina. The first two and half years, when international ports were closed, we stayed in Brazilian waters. I gave birth to Atlas in August 2020, in Ubatuba – São Paulo’s ‘Capital of Surf’. Though we sailed numerous times between Rio and Itajaí, much of our slower cruising time was devoted to exploring anchorages between Ilha Grande and Ilhabela.
With a foreign flagged boat, the pandemic offered us a unique opportunity to deeply experience this section of coast with the gift of time. The Brazilian sailing community loved our wild scene, a mess of feral kids on a fast trimaran, and embraced us with open hearts. We participated in local races and made wonderful friends.
Olympic 470 medallist Isabel Swan (far right) with five of the six Sao-Burwick children. She’s one of the Brazilian sailors who made the family feel so welcome. Photo: Somira Sao
When borders reopened, we sailed back and forth between Brazil and Uruguay. Then in October 2023, all movements stopped when James was diagnosed with cancer. Months of tests and doctor’s visits in Uruguay, Argentina, and Chile culminated in James having successful surgery in Santiago, Chile.
The medical treatment drained us financially. But instead of new sails and boat upgrades, we’d bought something more valuable: a clean bill of health and a new lease on his life. James wanted only one thing: to keep sailing with our family. We felt the same.
In May 2024, six months post-surgery, we took a critical look at our 90m2 carbon mainsail. Most of the delamination was in the lower part of the sail. James and the kids cut it off at the third reef. They selected the best cut offs and used it to patch problems areas in the sail that remained. The final product was more like a rigid wing. But we believed it would work.
We tested our patched main with a successful winter voyage up the La Plata River to Buenos Aires. When we returned, everyone was committed to continuing sailing. Our plan was ambitious: sail from Uruguay to Brazil, then onward to the Caribbean and Panama.
It was January 2025, still early in the season for heading north. The summer high pressure systems were lower down in the southern hemisphere, bringing beautiful warm summer weather, but this also meant a flow pattern that pushed persistent north and north-easterly winds down the Brazilian coast – directly against our intended route.
View of Rio de Janeiro’s distinctive city skyline over Guanabara Bay as seen from Niterói. Photo: Somira Sao
We wanted to make it directly to São Sebastiao state, so we needed the right low-pressure system: powerful enough for 4-5 days of southerly wind to make the 800 miles, but not so intense that we’d be battered up the coast. With the state of our current sails, going offshore was not an option. We would stay coastal to manage risk.
The timing had to be perfect. Too early and the system might overtake us; too late and we’d face messy seas or dying wind. We missed our first window in January waiting for an AIS unit to be repaired. The next six weeks, we watched in frustration as big summer high-pressure systems repeatedly elongated, squeezing promising lows into nothing. Finally, in mid-February, we saw our chance.
We left La Paloma on a four-day passage, beam-reaching and motor-sailing up the coast. One afternoon we had a short-lived opportunity to fly our gennaker, but the rest of the trip was an uphill fight.
We sailed to Ilhabela, Ilha Anchieta, and Ubatuba – home of Manuel Aparecido Jesus de Oliveira, our local problem solver. There we repaired our Mitsubishi electronic program controller, re-sealed our fuel tanks, and did routine maintenance on our engine.
Another 65 miles took Thunderbird up the coast to Ilha Grande Bay. We planned to base ourselves out of Paraty to prepare for the next phase of our voyage: 4,000 miles to the Caribbean. We spent a month living a very simple life on the hook, collecting fresh water from waterfall-fed springs. We took the tender deep into the mangroves to see red-clawed tree crabs.
Thunderbird anchored in the protected waters of Ilha do Cedro, Paraty, Rio de Janeiro. Photo: Somira Sao
The kids climbed giant boulders, ran barefoot on mossy trails through the Mâta Atlantica, swam and dived every day. Their energy was fuelled by tropical fruit, rice, beans, veggies and farofa. After just three weeks in the warm water, Atlas was swimming strong with no flotation. It felt fitting for our Ubatuba boy to learn how to swim in Brazilian waters.
We changed anchorages almost daily, from the tropical fjords and surreal emerald-green mangroves of Mamangua, to the beautiful mountainous bays and smaller islands surrounding Paraty.
Everyone got comfortable hand-steering the boat and using line of sight navigation. In Ilha Grande Bay, there was flat water and steady wind. It was an idyllic place, especially for young children, to learn how to sail.
‘Days became a blur of sea, sunrises, sunsets and nights’
The second month, we stopped our motion to focus on final preparations. We stayed anchored, disconnected far from roads and cell service. To get anything like food, parts, or supplies, we drove the dinghy 15 minutes to a small dock, then took a small local bus into Paraty. In this way, we started to meet the wonderful community of indigenous Guarani who lived along this peninsula.
We dived regularly on the boat, keeping the bottom clean and ready to go. We ordered a new AIS unit to replace the repaired one from Uruguay that had suddenly quit. We replaced solar panels, installed our spare Lewmar Mamba autopilot, did a rig check, reinforced our netting, and changed Thunderbird’s hydraulic fluid.
Anchored in the protected waters of Ilha do Cotia. Photo: Somira Sao
We checked and re-glued some of the patches on our mainsail. The main was holding up pretty well, but our jib did not look like it would last much longer. So we reached out to the local sailing community in a last-ditch search for some used sails.
A Brazilian friend, Silvio Ramos, who organises the BRally up the Amazon River, offered us a lifeline. He had an old main and jib from his 40-footer spare. They were Dacron, cross cut, smaller and lighter than we needed, but at least we’d have a back-up on board.
Then Roberto Paradeda from Quantum Sails Brazil got in touch. He had a used tri-radial taffeta jib sitting in his loft. It would be better for going upwind. The sail needed minor work but was a gift: we were blown away by his generosity.
When the sail arrived, we installed it immediately. Though slightly smaller than our original jib, it looked incredibly strong, and the loft’s workmanship on the new clew, luff and leech was perfect. We felt a rush of relief, certain we would now make it up the coast.
We made a test sail the next day to Tarituba, a small fishing village, staging ourselves closer to the channels that would take us out to the open ocean. We were ready.
The following morning, we departed Tarituba and phase two of our epic voyage began, the mountains of Ilha Grande fading behind us as the sun set. We felt nostalgic for the wild southern anchorages of the big island, especially the surf and squeaking white sand beaches of Praia de Lopes Mendes.
Pearl (12) and her brother Raivo (14) drive the boat to Ilha Grande Bay, Paraty. Photo: Somira Sao
This nostalgia was replaced quickly with the sudden responsibility of ocean navigation, and the mental toughness needed for our first night at sea after being in protected waters for two months.
Twenty-four hours later, the long days of voyage preparation (which had felt so gruelling at the time) seemed like a lazy vacation fading into distant memory. We were back in intense voyage mode and had found our rhythm again. Here we were, rounding the infamous cape that had humbled us so many times before.
The following days, the Brazilian coast unfolded like a familiar painting viewed under different light. We’d sailed these waters before, but never with such acute awareness of how precious each mile was for all of us. The days became a blur of sea, sunrises, sunsets and nights – a mix of upwind, beam reaching, and motor-sailing. Our goal was to traverse the remainder of Brazil’s coastline with minimal stops before reaching French Guiana.
As each child discovered what they could offer on board – and rose to meet that responsibility – we witnessed the kind of growth that only comes from being essential to a project, not optional. Their evolution from passengers to crew was proof that our decision to keep sailing, despite all its challenges, had been the right one.
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Magical mangroves
We passed Cabo São Tome in the dark. Then we sailed along the coast of Espiritu Santo, making a rushed fuel stop in Guarapari. Even though it was only half a mile up the river entrance and back, we begrudged every minute that took us away from our northward momentum.
After six days of minimal sleep we decided to stop in Camamu, a port in Bahia we had never been to before.
Raivo raises the sock on the gennaker. Photo: Somira Sao
We were tired and the plan was to pick up a mooring for the night in a narrow, protected waterway by Ilha do Goió. We had squally conditions on our approach: rain, lightning and gusts to 34 knots, so slowed the boat down so we could enter the river mouth at first light.
Dawn appeared, and we found ourselves in a magical, braided waterway surrounded by mangroves and coconut trees. The air was filled with the smell of flowers and the sound of singing birds. Brazil was showing us yet another face we hadn’t known she possessed.
Our next stop came three days later. Stella Marina, in the port of Barra de São Miguel had fuel. But it meant navigating an intimidating entrance.
Our Brazilian friends assured us it was no problem, but we thought long and hard about whether or not we should go in. Getting into the channel required a 90° turn towards land, over a narrow sandbar flanked by reefs, followed by a sharp right turn that threaded us between the beach and breaking waves, before the relative safety of the river’s channel. We studied all our charts and looked at any other options for refuelling.
Cabo Frio Lighthouse ‘Focino do Cabo’ on a calm, sunny day. Photo: Somira Sao
With the pressure of time on us, we decided to trust our friends and contacted Stella Marina to advise them we were, nervously, coming in. They sent two boats out to guide us. As soon as we committed to going in, I kind of wished that we hadn’t. After everything we’d been through, risking mechanical failure felt like tempting fate.
But it was too late. We were suddenly going for it, trusting the universe would keep us out of danger. We followed the marina’s RIB, surfing over the sandbar, the engine at 3,000rpm pushing hard against the current, and into the unmarked channel. I held my breath many times as we snaked our way along the curves of the river.
James’ 48 years of experience at sea was evident in these high stress moments, his hand calm and steady on the wheel, not letting us get spun off course by the strong currents, the pressure, or any hesitation.
We made it out safely the next morning the same way we went in, then all looked at each other once we were released to the sea, promising to never, ever, do that again.
Raivo Sao-Burwick and his younger brother, Zan, on board Thunderbird on the São Sebastião Channel, Ilhabela, São Paulo. Photo: Somira Sao
Approaching Recife two days later, we felt the sea state had already changed beneath us. The wind’s angle shifted subtly, the current that had fought us for weeks finally began to help, and suddenly we were sailing with Brazil instead of against it. Finally there was only the quiet of the ocean as the engine was silenced.
As we passed Cabedelo, where our Brazilian adventure had begun five years ago, the symmetry felt intentional, like a gift from the ocean. What followed was pure sailing magic. With 15-20 knot winds on our quarter, we flew the gennaker day after day, the kids taking turns on the sheets, their competence a testament to how far we’d all come. At night, when fatigue made trimming too complex, we ran the jib that Roberto had given us.
So much salt covered everything that we stopped adding any to our food. Everyone’s hair got lighter and faces had a bronze patina from the sun and wind. We were turning into creatures of the sea.
Into the North
The sargassum began appearing as we moved north, bright yellow patches that set off our depth sounder alarm, sometimes slowing the boat enough to make the pilot malfunction. As we approached the equator, the blooms grew thicker and more frequent, becoming more of a navigational hazard, and so we steered to avoid them.
We crossed the equator in the darkness, without any fanfare. It was Atlas’s 1st, Jade’s 2nd, Pearl and Zan’s 4th, mine and the oldest kids’ 5th and James’s 7th. The kids noticed a distinct line on the sea where blue water turned to green as we sailed along the mouth of the Amazon.
Sunrise heading for Recife. Photo: Somira Sao
Soon after, we were out of Brazilian waters and in French Guiana. Eleven days after leaving Barra de Sao Miguel, we anchored at Îles du Salut in French Guiana.
We had a crew discussion about going to see the island, but everyone just wanted to keep going. Another 600 miles to the Caribbean now felt like nothing. We continued north.
Four days later, Thunderbird was in the Caribbean Sea. We waited outside of the Bocas del Dragón for the tide to shift so we could enter the Gulf of Paria. The kids hovered excitedly in the cockpit, their salt-stained clothes telling the story of our passage better than any logbook entry.
Two months of preparation, 30 days of sailing, and five years of living in South America was all about to become memories. I had the familiar bittersweet feeling that comes at the end of every passage; relief and loss intertwined. I looked at James, whose eyes held a mix of exhaustion and exhilaration. The scar from his surgery had faded, but the gift of this moment – of being here, together, alive – would never diminish.
High jinks at a magical anchorage in Brazil’s Ilha Grande Bay, Ilha do Cedro. Photo: Somira Sao
The trip was transformative in such a positive way.
We were not the same family that left La Paloma three months earlier. The dynamic nature of life at sea cultivated qualities like adaptability, critical thinking, and collaborative problem-solving. When you can’t just pull over or call for help, everyone had to rise to the occasion.
Gliding through the Boca, I felt pride for our six children who had evolved so beautifully to meet the challenges of fulfilling their father’s dream to keep on sailing. I also felt thankful for our strong boat, our trusty mainsail that had held together, and for the kindness of friends who helped make this trip possible.

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