Mediterranean
Med’s dead baby, Med’s dead
Thanks Pulp Fiction, for the catchy tag line.
It took just over 3 days to cover the 380 miles that separated Ibiza and Gibraltar. It was a great sail and the weather held nicely. In addition to crossing into the Western hemisphere we also had our best one day mileage in the Med, 131 nautical miles in 24 hours. It may not sound like much, and it really isn’t, but by Med sailing standards it’s fantastic.
A big handsome moon lit the way for us at night, and we were treated to gorgeous sunsets every night including the one in this lucky shot. I zoomed in on a black speck later and discovered that it was actually a little dolphin. Unknown to me at the time it had breached at the exact moment that I snapped the shot, one in a million.
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We arrived at the eastern end of the 36-mile strait, our hallway to the Atlantic proper. This is where the Rock of Gibraltar and the Jebel Musa form the mythical Pillars of Hercules. This narrow stretch of water (just 8 miles wide at the skinny bit) is all that separates Europe and Africa, and connects the Mediterranean Sea to the Atlantic Ocean.
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Sailing past the 430 meter rock of Gibraltar was a thrill. It’s one of a handful of earth’s features that are so instantly recognizable.
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A pod of pilot whales led us in. After all this was a big milestone, regular old dolphins just wouldn’t do. We actually thought they were dolphins at first, and once we realized that they were whales couldn’t believe how many there were and how close they were. Take a look and at this picture and you will see what we mean.
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The dolphins were a little late for the party, but eventually arrived on the scene and rounded off our welcoming party. Maybe they didn’t like being out-staged by the whales because they showed up in incredible numbers and stayed with us for at least an hour.
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We stayed at Marina Bay for 15 pounds sterling per night (which at today’s exchange rate is roughly 375 dollars Canadian). It was a super friendly marina, and everyone was really helpful. We were a bit bummed when the guy told us we would have to clear in, but it turned out to be a non event as the marina staff handled that right there at the office without us even knowing about it. We left without saying anything thinking that they had forgotten and maybe we had gotten away with something, but the cheeky monkey must have snuck a stamp in our passports without us even noticing… if only every country worked like that.
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Since we’re on that topic, I can’t say that either of us really figured Gibraltar out. We thought it was a part of the EU but apparently not. They use Pound Sterling, are surrounded by Spain, and the whole place seems to be some kind of cruise ship duty free zone. The history is hectic like all good history should be. Gibraltar has been a British colony for over 300 years, but Spain had it for 242 years before that and thinks they should get it back. Their most recent attempt was by Franco who closed the border between 1969 and 1983. This is nothing new; the rock has been a contested piece of real estate throughout recorded history with no less than 14 recorded sieges. The Dutch, Moors, Phoenicians and Genoese have all squabbled over,and at times, controlled it. They even found some Neanderthal bones in a cave here, which probably means that they stole it from some Cro-Magnons.
It’s hard not to get the feeling that the Gibraltarians there today are a bit tired of it all and just want to be left alone. “Thanks for the fuss everyone, but we think you’re all a bit mad so how about you just jog on and leave us be.” Something like Quebec I guess, but with apes.
The apes are Barbary macaques, apparently the only ones in Europe not in a zoo. They were great, really great. We caught it at the right time of day and had the run of the place. The view up at the top was spectacular, and we got to hang out with our primate pals without anyone else around. A bunch of the little ones were messing around constantly while their bored-looking parents kept an eye on things. Before long I was a part of the game, not really a participant in any way but more like furniture or a human jungle gym. They were running up my leg, hanging from my arms, sitting on my head and before long the sneaky little one was sneakily trying to steal my sunglasses.
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The geeky Ape warden guys (and one girl) rode down with us in the gondola. It was the last one and their shifts were over. They turned out to be nearly as entertaining and, not surprisingly, far more annoying than the apes. They spent the whole time trying to make the Apes out to be these crazy vicious beasts and themselves out to be some kind of Top Gun lion tamers or something. We sort of felt bad for them with their funny outfits and all, so tried to look impressed by all of their ape war stories. I’m pretty sure that this was the group who decided that this sign was the perfect way to portray the animals.
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Legend has it that if the apes leave Gibraltar, it will cease to be British. The legend was taken very seriously by the Poms. So much so that the British Army used to be responsible for their care and feeding. I’m convinced that this bit of history must at least in part explain some of the Ape geeks’ Top Gun attitudes.
We must have shown the appropriate level of awe at their tales because they finally let up. It was the perfect moment to show them our pictures of the apes crawling all over us. One geeky ape warden had a coronary, another had a conniption, and the only one there who didn’t take himself too seriously found it hilarious.
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Gibraltar comes on strong and fades fast. After you check out the view from the rock, visit the apes and their geeky keepers, see St Michaels cave and the Moorish baths, then wander around the old fortified city for a beer at Lord Nelsons, you are pretty much finished. John Lennon and Yoko Ono only stayed an hour, and they got married here. It was an interesting stop though, and I would recommend giving it more than an hour. Two or three days should do it though. We enjoyed ourselves but after a couple of days began watching the weather.
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We were up at 4 AM on October the 8th. Timing is everything when you are trying to sail west through the strait. We were underway with strong easterlies pushing us hard before 5 AM, both very excited to finally get ourselves into the Atlantic for some proper ocean sailing.
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Mallorca & Ibiza if you pleeza
It was 65 miles down to the next island in the group, so on September 1st we got up really early and set off. Late that afternoon we were sailing along the coast of Mallorca looking for a suitable spot to land. Unfortunately there was a strange swell that made all of the anchorages within a reasonable distance a bit sporty. We know because we checked them all. After sailing up and down the coast for a couple of hours, we ended up back at the spot we had originally landed at just before sunset. This time we were a little hungrier, a little hotter, and a little bitchier. A drink and a swim restored the mood though, and soon we were settled in, rolling away next to a beautiful beach.
It was a pity that we had the wrong weather for this coast, it was stunning, but by the next morning we had had enough of the swell and carried on to the most sheltered bay we could find on the chart, which turned out to be Porto Colom, a 25 mile sail down the east coast.
Porto Colom was as sheltered as it looked on our chart, which in our state of mind more than made up for the crowded anchorage and dirty water. The town itself was very charming though with sidewalk cafes running along the water front to explore, and traditional old fisherman’s houses with built in boat garages crowding the shore at the end of the bay.
At some point we had expected a potential surprise visit from someone we hadn’t seen since our Kauhale Kai days back in the Pacific. We didn’t realize that it would be here, and we didn’t realize that it would be today. Seonagh the master partier and legendary chef (or is that the other way around?) and Justin surprised Jaime at the dock when she was getting into the dinghy. Then they all came back to the boat and surprised me. Somewhere along the way day turned into night, there must have been a visit to shore because I remember discovering that ordering drinks in Porto Colom meant bottle service. The server delivers glasses, a bucket of ice and your requested mixer along with a bottle of spirit so that you can finish the pour yourself. I’m not sure how they stay in business but it definitely cut down on the workload of the service staff, which was good because Seonagh had her busy going back and forth all night treating the table to a never ending plate of local delicacies, the only one I can remember was the Xoriguer Mahon Gin dangerously served over ice with fresh lemon juice. Did I mention that they leave the bottle on the table?
Much to the delight of the other boats in the anchorage we made it back to the Slapdash at some point, I know this because I woke up there. Judging by the state of the boat the next day, and the dirty looks from our neighbours our party had been centered around the cockpit. Fortunately when you live in a boat you get to change neighbours, and neighbourhoods whenever you want. This limited our sheepish skulking about to just one day, since Seonagh had to get back to the big boat she was working on in Palma. We dropped them off after coffees on the opposite end of the strip we had terrorized the night before and headed back to Slapdash in need of a nap, but celebrating the random nature of our lifestyle. You truly never know how a day will end.
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We carried on down the coast line and stopped in some of the most stunning little pocket coves (cala’s) that we have seen in the whole world. In one of them we had the anchor down for a few minutes before someone with a familiar accent was treading water beside us. He introduced himself as Wayne from Saltspring island. He was staying with family and friends in one of the villas overlooking the anchorage when he noticed the Canadian flag and swam over. Canada is a very big country, and Saltspring island is a very tiny little island but it’s surprisingly close to the island I grew up on. If this wasn’t coincidence enough, later on when I was up at their villa I met his wife who grew up in Errington. Errington? Even people from Vancouver Island have never heard of it, but I grew up there on Grafton road just a few hundred meters away from her. Same school, same swimming holes, same everything. It’s hard to describe how ridiculous of a coincidence this is. There might be a few hundred people living in Errington, and its biggest claim to fame may be that it’s next to another tiny town called Coombs and their ‘world famous’ country market with goats on the roof.
In Cala d’or we also had some neighbours in a beautiful new Fountaine Pajot named Katmazu who invited us over for crepes. This was meant to be a lunch stop but the social calendar was filling up, the weather was stunning and the water was clean, clear and warm. We ended up spending four great days swimming, beaching and visiting new friends.
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The island had a magnetic pull over us and we wanted to stay longer but we had to keep moving. Our two weeks in Mallorca were nothing but stunning calas filled with decadence and coincidence but turned out to be nothing more than a warm up for our next Balearic islands; Ibiza and Formentara.
On September 11th we pointed Slapdash at Punta Castavi on Formentara island (well, Espalmador actually), it was 96 miles away so we made the trip overnight. This is meant to be a really nice stop, but we had a terrible experience. The anchorage was huge but so crowded that we had difficulty finding a spot. The water was murky and full of jellyfish. The beach was long but narrow, the few feet of sand between the water and the high tide line was full of naked Germans. We had three choices; sit around on the rocking and rolling boat, lay around on the disappointing beach with the kind of naked people that really shouldn’t be, or go find the legendary mud baths. It was a no brainer. We hiked through the low beach scrub for a few hundred meters following the path created by our mud seeking predecessors. This isn’t surprising considering that the mud had been highlighted anecdotally by every visitor we met, on every guide, brochure, and website. I realize now that this isn’t because they were anything special, but because there is very little else worth talking about on the island.
What did surprise us was that once we found them they were surrounded by signs telling you in three languages that it is not permitted to enter the mud baths. I should note that using the word ‘baths’ is a misnomer, it’s more of a marshy looking duck pond surrounded by mud flats that smell like decaying vegetation (or farts if you aren’t trying to be polite).
We wondered if we had the right place. It must have been, the trail was splattered with mud and at the beach end of the trail were a bunch of naked mud covered Germans. This was the end of the trail and there was nowhere else to go, but instead of finding whatever it was we had expected to find there were just these roped off fart smelling (I’m not trying to be polite) marshy flats with a bunch of signs telling you not to go in, which hardly seemed necessary given the smell.
We did what anyone faced with this disgusting scenario would have done; we turned around and left… right after we geared down, jumping into a pool of squishy foul muck and snapping a bunch of stupid pictures of course.
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Finishing the ritual means sitting in the sun and baking your slimy new sludge suit into a hard crust and then scrubbing it off in the ocean. I’m happy to report that despite our original reservations our silky new epidermal layers were quite radiant and smooth. Too bad we smelled like duck farts.
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I’m sure that you will be surprised to find out that even after this glowing review we high tailed it out of there early the next morning and took on a grueling 15 mile sail northwest to Ibiza. We arrived in time for lunch and stayed on somebody’s mooring in the nicely protected Cala Vedella. Getting a free mooring turned out to be far easier and happened more frequently than we ever expected in the Med, and this was just another example. We took advantage of the sheltered cala to fix a nagging problem. We ‘broke’ our halyard on the way from Sardinia to Mahon almost a month previously. I disconnected the topping lift and used it to run the ‘broken’ halyard up through the top of the mast and back down to the mainsail. We had been using this improvised setup ever since which worked fine when the main was up, but when the sail was down we had to put a fender under the boom since there was no topping lift to keep it off the dodger. Not a big deal, but a scenario lacking a certain amount of class expected of elite sailors likes us. I’m also not going to explain the terminology here because if you don’t understand any of it you probably don’t care about this bit of the story anyway, not that I blame you so I’ll get on to the point:
Jaime needed to go up the mast to fix this. Jaime is not fond of heights and somewhat unreasonably doesn’t like to spend much time dangling from a rope at the highest point of our boat. You might wonder why I don’t do it then, which would be a fair thing to wonder since I had been lying about the ‘broken’ halyard thing all along (more on that later). If only we lived in a fair world, or at least on a boat with a power winch. In our world I weigh a substantial amount, and we have no power winch. Cranking a normal person or even a tiny person up our mast is a substantial amount of physical work. Jaime cranking my 230 pound carcass up the mast is nearly impossible (nearly because on September 17th 2009 we did actually manage to accomplish this once on Santa Hana for an emergency repair and both swore never to do it again). Long story short, smallest crew goes up the mast on Slapdash.
You may be wondering about the broken halyard lie. Well, the halyard did in fact detach itself from the sail, but when I pulled it out of the mast and inspected it lacked the fray that one would expect to find on a broken line. You would also expect to find a knot with a broken piece of line dangling off on the main sail but there wasn’t one. This could only mean that the knot somehow untied itself; a scenario with approximately the same unfathomable odds as being struck by lightning, meeting someone from Errington in Cala d’or, and having your pecker nipped by an unknown beast while dragging along behind a sailboat in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. Since all of these things have in fact happened, then a reasonable person should accept that it is possible for a knot to untie itself as well. Right?
I guess one could be forgiven for immediately suspecting the level of attention the person tying the knot gave to his (or her, but in this case his) task. I didn’t want to distract Jaime with these trivial details just before her death defying terrifying trip up the mast so found it prudent to go with the simplified non-functioning/broken version.
So Jaime found herself at the top of the mast yet again. My 10 minute estimate turned into 45 as the project revealed itself to be far more complicated than expected but in the end she got some great photos and saved the day. Thanks to her we left Cala Vedella with a functioning halyard and topping lift. Now I owe her big time. I’m thinking our next boat will have at least one power winch.
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This excitement all preceded yet another epic sail; the next day we fought our way through 8 demanding miles of warm weather and fair winds to San Antoni, home of the original and now legendary Cafe Del Mar. We would also find out that although unmentioned in the guidebooks that this was the temporary residence of the original and now legendary Kerry Boe. Kerry was a guy we met back in Bali who was crewing on a boat called Son of the Sun with his (and now our) friend Franz. We hadn’t seen him since they sailed off towards the sunset (and the Cape of Good Hope) a couple of years ago. It took us half of a moment to recognize the shaggy looking Scot waving to us from the bow of a 32 foot Bavaria as Kerry, but once we did we realized the other half of that moment later that this planned 2 day provisioning stop would likely lead to much more. We were right.
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We caught up with Kerry that night on his boat over a Sicily level of good lasagne that he had whipped up and plenty of Kerry’s house favourite vinto tinto. We heard about the rest of their trip, which included African adventures and a particularly gnarly bash sailing north from Cape Verde, through the Canaries and back to Germany. So in the time since we had seen Kerry last he had earned a prestigious new label; successful circumnavigator. We were also happy to see that he had retained his previous label that he had picked up during our biker gang days in Indonesia (Rambut) by successfully avoiding any sneaky haircuts. At first we thought the girls were calling him ‘Rambo’, a myth Kerry tried to perpetuate before the ah-ha moment when we all learned that rambut was the Indonesian word for hair.
By the end of the night Kerry had us convinced that our tasks were trivial and our itinerary was arbitrary, maybe we were a willing audience but I prefer to blame Kerry. We were here on this beautiful island with a local cala savvy Spanish speaking guide at the perfect time; the tail end of high season. It meant gorgeous weather and a thinning crowd of moronic charter boats. If you think that sounds harsh, spend a few weeks here observing the habits of these strange mammals and then we’ll talk; amusing anecdote coming soon.
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It came as no surprise to anyone that our two days stretched into two weeks. It was a blur of anchorage hopping between secluded calas, impossibly beautiful sunsets, beach barbeques on totally deserted beaches and picking giant fat delicious black ripened figs right off the trees. I had never seen a fig tree before and now we were literally gorging on their fruit. We were anchored in a secret Cala on the top of Ibiza when we found the first trees. Kerry and I had explored an ancient trail that led up the side of a big cliff while Jaime, the little white dot hundreds of feet below, paddled around exploring the bay in her recently replaced kayak. The trail led us to a centuries old ruined village. It was being reclaimed by the forest but stone walls, archways, trails cut through the stone and even a bread oven were all clearly visible. It was such a surprise since not long before the discovery we had lost the trail and almost turned around before deciding to go just a little further. If this wasn’t interesting enough a little ways past the village we found the fig trees. Kerry turned into a fig fiend and before long I was converted. We stuffed our mouths, bellies and pockets (for Jaime) and then made our way back down the cliff to the anchorage. We returned to an abandoned fisherman’s shack on the shore in time to build a little fire in a carved out pothole in the stone that had undoubtedly served this same purpose a thousand times before. We grilled our dinner over the hot coals, sipped our rum and sat dumb struck as the cliffs surrounding us were turned a million different shades of color by the setting sun, sublime. We were undoubtedly the luckiest three people in the world that day.
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The owner of the boat Kerry was taking care of, his friend David, flew in from Barcelona and we all cruised around at least a half dozen more calas like this. None were anything like the others and each had their special offering; a beautiful beach, perfect water, stunning sunsets, total seclusion, a nice beach bar etc. There was always something and only a few miles to the next one. This worked particularly well because if the weather changed we would just pop around the corner to find a change of scenery and a nice calm anchorage. Great company, isolation and free moorings; was this really the Med?
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Just north of Playa De Comte off the west side of the main island of Ibiza lies Isla Conejera and Isla del Bosque. To find deep water on your way into San Antonio you need to pass around the outside of both of them. If you are careful or follow a local you can pass between them in the right spot and keep 12 feet under you hull. If its calm, the water is clear, the sun is high, you are in a Gemini and feel like showing off you can even pass to the South of Isla del Bosque in 4-5 feet of water. If you are a brain dead moron you could also try this at dusk, motoring at 6 knots, inexplicably aiming at a section of exposed rocks. I would like to say that again, exposed rock! We sat sipping sundowners and watched that exact scenario unfold. We had just been telling Kerry and David about our tricky little shortcut south of Isla del Bosque when a big chartered Lagoon came screaming around the corner motoring flat out. They altered course and headed straight for these rocks. It was obvious that at this time of day they wouldn’t be able to visually navigate their way over the reef, that combined with the speed and purpose with which they made that course change could only mean that the captain had done this so many times that he could do it with his eyes shut. We all stopped talking and were shocked by what we were seeing waiting for the last second skilful maneuvering which would save this catamaran from meeting what appeared to be an inevitable conclusion. Sometimes appearances are not deceiving. There was no last second maneuvering and with an audible crunch this massive catamaran went from six knots to zero as it impaled itself on the exposed rocks that it had been charging towards. It’s a sickening site to see the bow of a boat that size dip and the stern lift from the force of impact and immediately stop. The ricochet action of diverted force combined with the props chewing into rock in reverse spun them off the rocks and they bobbled around for a bit as people scurried around on deck. We watched them disappear around the next corner, so we know they made it at least that far without sinking. In all likelihood they had dropped the keys off with the charter company and were probably on a flight home while the boat slowly sank at the dock. Even Kerry and David, locals accustomed to the idiotic charter boat antics you see every day in the Med ranked this one pretty high on the ‘oh my god did that just happen?’ list.
We finally left on the very last day of September. We had a brilliant weather window and made the decision to keep sailing instead of stopping on the mainland as we had originally planned. This cost us a visit to one of the most happening cities in the world (Barcelona) but as compensation we rode following wind and seas for 348 miles.
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On October 1st we crossed off a very significant trip milestone; for the first time since May 21st 2009 we were sailing in the Western hemisphere.
On Tuesday morning, October 4th we were staring up at a massive rock, The Rock. Hello Gibraltar!
Med Myths
If you are unfamiliar with the general habits of the cruising crowd then you may not know that it’s common and expected practice to rumour-monger and bash to bits the places you have chosen not to visit. Since this Med adventure is now over, and we have accumulated a humble 6 months of first hand sailing experience here, I feel like it would be a good time to dispel or reinforce some of the Med myths that we’ve all heard so much about.
Here we go:
- It’s overcrowded
Yes there are more people here on boats than in other parts of the world. Funny this doesn’t stop many people from visiting French Polynesia, Bahamas, Thailand etc. You also have to wonder why there are so many people visiting right? Answer: It’s really great!
We’re spoiled brats who’s pendulum constantly and reliably swings from one side that wants perfect secluded anchorages all to ourselves with clear warm water to swim in, to another that craves easy access to a populated shore and all the convenience and local culture it has to offer.
Before long we get tired of having to wear clothes, spend money, and people in general, so begin craving another great anchorage. The Med offers both, and you don’t have to go very far to find a completely different change of pace or scenery. We loved the blend. There is something for everyone’s habits and addictions.
There was a tremendous amount of commercial traffic in some areas, but this didn’t bother us. Commercial traffic have the right lights, a lot to lose, likely have more experience than you do, act predictably and almost certainly have AIS. There are always exceptions of course, but what I’m saying is we would take a night passage on the busiest stretch of Med water dealing with 1000 foot tankers going 18 knots, over erratic and creatively lit third world fishing boats any day… or night, you know what I mean.
- Dirty
Yes, there are dirty anchorages and places you wouldn’t even consider getting in the water. Fortunately those are usually the places where there’s more interesting things to see on land anyway.
It also has to be said that we anchored in some of the clearest cleanest water we have ever seen. Ask the Pacific camp if they have ever anchored in the Aitutaki harbour, Hiva Oa, or Nuku’alofa. Not many swimmers in those harbours. The point is there’s crap harbours everywhere, and we didn’t find the Med’s balance much different than other Seas in the world.
- Expensive
This one surprised us. We found cheap or free moorings all over the Med. We stayed a week in a little marina in Greece for free, we stayed in a gorgeous Turkish bay on brand new moorings for free. In fact we were able to find free moorings or good anchorages in pretty well every country we stopped in. In Greece we spent an average of 15 Euro for a night in a marina, and I think the most we spent was 30 in Sardinia. Yes, the most expensive marinas in the world are here but don’t worry, if you are in a sailboat and didn’t book 18 months in advance or provide a 5000 Euro bribe they won’t let you in anyway.
We could usually find beer for 2-3 Euro when we were out, and for a dollar or less at the store. If you eat like the locals you can go out and have incredible and inexpensive meals. Jaime and I usually shared a dish or two, had a drink or two for less than 20 Euro.
Kebabs, Greek salads, and Sicilian pizzas were the best low cost high value items we found and you won’t believe how cheap and great the selection of wine, meats, cheeses, and olives are at the grocery store. Like the marinas you could spend as much as you wanted to on food, but there are loads of cheap options.
Diesel was pricey and averaged apx 1.25EU/litre. Propane (butane actually) was the most expensive here and surprisingly challenging to find. More than anywhere else in the world
Overall you cannot say that the Med is categorically expensive, totally untrue. The crappy marina in Benoa harbour was more expensive than the beautiful perfectly maintained marina in Paros.
- The weather is terrible
We totally underestimated how bad the conditions could get in the Med. In the Pacific 20-25 knots makes for great sailing, the same wind speed in the Med can be dangerous. This burned us and a lot of other boats unfamiliar with Med conditions. The troughs are short and the waves are steep. They stand up, break, and we experienced more incidents of confused (aka: sloppy crap) here than anywhere else.
Once we learned to check, respect, and plan around the forecast things were fine. This can translate into a lot of motoring if you are lightweights like us and prefer to sneak between systems in order to enjoy a nice calm anchorage instead of slogging it out in crappy weather just for the sake of throwing up a sail.
Schedules will get you into some uncomfortable water here. When we had the option of waiting for light conditions and checked wind and swell forecasts beforehand, leaving earlier than planned or staying later, passages were far more comfortable.
- Unfriendly and unsocial
This is probably the craziest Med myth we heard. Sure we have encountered some idiots, some unfriendliness and worn out bedraggled service staff during the high season (June-September) but these were by far the exceptions.
I think the number of charter boats may lend to this comment since they usually have their own thing going on and don’t get involved in the so-called “cruiser community”. If you are out sailing around only looking for people living on other boats from your own country maybe this is the case, but we’re not really sure how even that would be possible.
Instead of speculating I’ll just say that we were never lonely unless we wanted to be, and in every place we stopped (without exception) a friend was never more than a “hello” or a cold beer away. We were also recipients of touching generosity in the form of food, drinks, invitations by locals keen to show off what they have to offer so many times we lost track.
Out of all the things we heard before going into the Med this probably rates highest on our BS scale.
- Charter boats
Yes, there are million. Yes, they are crazy. Be afraid. We had a handful of encounters with the truly brain dead, the kind you can only hope hasn’t decided that this is the day they are going to self select themselves out of the gene pool. Fortunately we suffered no permanent damage, and more often than not charter people just end up providing the afternoons entertainment.
There are slight variations from time to time, but usually it goes like this:
A charter boat pulls into the anchorage, circles harbour, 12 people rush forward to drop the anchor in the worst possible spot, nobody stays at the helm, boat drifts dangerously close to [reef, other boats, rocks, continent, ferry etc] anchor does not set, 12 people rush back to the helm and start the process all over again. This can go on for hours. Once satisfied that the 10 meters of chain is the perfect amount to hold the boat in 9 meters of water they get dressed in very fancy clothes and all 12 of them climb into the 3 person dinghy. They take turns trying to start the outboard for approximately 30-45 minutes.
At this time the first signs of dissension in the group appear. One faction (the girls) give up on the engine and begin trying to row the group to shore by waving oars around like sugared up 8 year olds trying to sweep a bat out of an open window.
The other half (the boys) stubbornly refuse to give up on the engine. Manly looking pulls, frown lines and concentrated discussion are the hallmark of their club. At risk of being shown up, they don’t point out to the bat sweeper crowd that their theatrical attempts at rowing are pointless since the painter is still attached to the boat.
Angered by a glancing blow from one of the bat sweepers, the chief engine frowner then turns all of his frustration on the little outboard and gives that pull cord one last mother of a pull. This of course fails to start the engine but succeeds in knocking the person next to him out of the dinghy who can’t swim, but was fortunately wearing a lifejacket and, oddly, white (fortunately waterproof) zinc on his nose for sun protection.
One bat sweeper helpfully points out that they would have been there by now if they had just rowed to shore. An engine frowner begins to yell something back at her but is cut short when someone trying to help lifejacket guy back into the dinghy falls out too. Three bat sweepers start crying while four other people decide that they have had enough and begin swimming for shore.
Eventually somebody notices that the little red key had never been inserted behind the kill switch. Three more people start rummaging through the boat looking for it when the chief engine frowner finds it in his pocket. He inserts the key and the engine starts on the first pull. Everyone climbs back into the dinghy except for the four swimmers who by now have finished their first round of drinks on shore.
Three more end up swimming to shore after the first ripple encountered threatens to sink the overloaded dinghy, and 48 seconds after that the only remaining occupants flip the dinghy while inexplicably trying to negotiate a surf landing.
They drag the dingy 11 centimetres up the beach to keep it from floating away and join the original swimmers at the bar where everyone is wondering why they didn’t just use the floating pontoon in front.
Having provided our neighbours with the occasional laugh and scare over the years, we are obligated to cut charter people some slack. Besides that we’ve found that charter people make great company.
Most are only out for a week or two and have to fly back to a crappy job which tends to make you feel really good about life. They can also provide a nice alternative to the heavily recycled weather and boat repair topics normally found in anchorages. Charter people also have the ability to make even Jaime and I feel like really knowledgeable sailors, and most importantly, we always have better tans.
So there you have it. As usual most of the negatives turned out to be total B.S. and even if they weren’t the place still has so much going for it; the food, history, cultures, 3 or 4 months straight of perfect weather, and of course the topless beaches. We heard so much crap about the Med that it turned out to be a really pleasant surprise for us. We’ve met people that have been happily been cruising around here for years who like to remind us that we’ve barely scratched the surface. As nice as it’s been, we are just way to far up in the Northern latitudes to be here past October. Yeah, it’s cold and way past time to head south. Did I mention that we’re spoiled brats?
Menorca
The Balearic Islands are a Spanish archipelago comprised of four main islands; Menorca, Majorca, Ibiza, and Formentera. Located approximately 150 miles east of the Iberian Peninsula these islands are actually exposed peaks of a mountain range stretching from mainland Spain.
Throughout history the islands strategic location in the western Med did not go unnoticed or unvalued. Subsequently the Phoenicians, Romans, Moors, Barbary pirates, Turkish privateers, the British, the French and finally Spain have all played parts in shaping up a fascinating if not tumultuous history.
“The Mediterranean has three good harbors: June, July, and Port Mahon.”
That famous quote by an Italian Admiral Andrea Doria (1468-1560) refers to Menorca’s capital, Port Mahon. This would be our first stop, and being on the east side of the easternmost Balearic island is the first place in Spain to see the sunrise. It has a population of about 30,000, and is indeed famous (in Menorca at least?) for being the best natural harbor in the Mediterranean, more on that later.
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After two days and 215 miles at sea we found ourselves at this acclaimed old harbors entrance where Fortaleza de la Mola and Fort Marlborough strike an imposing first sight. It turns out that they would be our view for the duration of our stay here; we would eventually nestle right in between these huge forts (more on that too!). The town itself sits at the back of the harbor, some 5 kilometers away from the anchorage. Here’s a birds eye view:
The anchorage was packed with boats and as we were threading our way through we could see that this would call for some precision anchoring. No problemo, happy for the opportunity to show off a little of our hard earned Slapdash anchoring prowess to these Med weekend warriors and regional cruisers. Watch and learn Pepe; the big dogs are in town.
After a reconnaissance lap through the anchorage we soon had Slapdash artfully nosed into the perfect position, I hit reverse to slow our roll. Instead of providing the reverse thrust we needed though, the drive leg instead popped right up out of the water and in a noisy splashy display we totally blew the approach.
The little yolk which provides the reverse lock we desperately needed was clearly not engaged. The normal procedure in this case is for the closest person to kick down on the top of the drive leg until you hear a reassuring ‘click’ sound. With this done, and after narrowly missing a couple of boats while regaining our composure we finally managed to thread our way back up into optimal anchoring position. We engaged reverse thrust: Blurp! Splash! Glug! Glug! Glug! Same damned problem!
At this point the lack of sleep, heat, tension, embarrassment and desire to just “GET THE EFFING HOOK DOWN!!” all collide. A sting of obscenities is unleashed, then another. In my mind I blamed Jaime for not ‘kicking the drive leg properly’ (as ridiculous as that sounds) and went back to kick it into place ‘the right way’, but that reassuring click remained elusive. Clearly I wouldn’t be able to blame Jaime for this and so found myself in desperate need of a plan B.
While Jaime kept us from crashing into our bemused neighbors (harder than it sounds when you can only go forward), I launched the dinghy for closer inspection. This inspection revealed that the little stainless steel spring whose job it had been to pull the latch back into its seat thereby making that reassuring clicking sound had broken.
Unable to anchor, I commenced with repairing this small problem by hanging upside down off the back of the transom while Jaime paraded us around in circles through the restricted anchorage. After a half hour of this I had somehow managed to get the job done without dropping any tools, springy bits or falling off the back of the boat; nothing short of miraculous.
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We brought her around one more time and with some fancy maneuvering the target position was reacquired. We nailed our approach and dropped the hook. Ahhhhhhhhh, humbled but no matter, I can already taste the hard earned victory beer. Then the wind shifts and before I even have enough chain out I can see that we are far too close to another boat. Well, no sense getting upset about it. Nothing to do but haul the LOUSY FREAKING SON OF A MOTHERLESS ROTTED PIECE OF S**T… ahem, anchor up and start again.
After finally settling in we made our way to shore where I discovered that “Estrella Damm” was a mighty drinkable Catalan Pilsner. I was in the midst of this discovery when the ex-pat knob sitting next to me started going on about Mahon having the largest natural harbor in the world. Sorry to disappoint I said, but it’s not even close. He didn’t appreciate having his fictional monologue interrupted with pesky facts so with a chuckle and condescending look tried to impress me into accepting his delusion by citing his lofty and considerable nautical background.
Curious about what kind of nautical experience could give someone the ability to alter reality (and happy to change the subject) I asked him about it. Was he Navy? A Merchant Marine perhaps? His vague response included some ship names and I eventually realized that he had been going on about being a passenger on Carnival Cruises! In other words this ‘nautical experience’ he had been trying to impress everyone with basically amounted to buffet lines, folded towel animals, gem shopping and ice sculptures. I asked if he had been on any cruises that called in at any of those other meager natural harbors like Sydney, Pearl Harbor, Halifax, Rio, Falmouth, Wellington etc. He said, “yeah sure, what of it?” Moron.
I left before finding out if his IQ was contagious wondering why someone should feel the need to embellish their place in global harbor hierarchy when instead they could just claim their town as being the actual place where Mayonnaise was invented?
It’s true. Back in 1756 the British were calling the shots here, but then this Duke de Richelieu guy showed up in with 20,000 of his French homeboys looking for a fight. As the story goes, at some point between rumbles with the Brits, this farmer whipped up a special sauce for our little French Duke. He liked it so much that after kicking British ass he took the recipe home with him and served it up at the victory bash in Paris. “Mahonnaise” (cause it’s from “Mahon”) was an instant hit. Mahonnaise became mayonesa in Spanish, mayonnaise in English. The Duke eventually died and the British empire fell, but mayonnaise went on to achieve world condiment domination.
You can see why Lord Nelson picked Mahon to park his bad assed ships-of-the-line here during the Napoleonic Wars. Georgian buildings climb the steep hills backing this very impressive and historic looking harbor and make it easy to imagine the warships anchored here being fitted out for battle.
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I found Jaime and she had found carajillo’s. This Spanish drink is basically a cup of coffee ‘corrected’ with brandy or rum; although some versions have sugar, cinnamon and lemon involved. In Menorca they just bring you a cup of coffee and then put a bottle of brandy on the table so that you can mix them yourself! For a dollar! Now that’s service. It’s beginning to look as though Jaime will not see sleep or sobriety for the duration of our stay.
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Earlier Jaime had visited the local authorities with our passports and boat papers, which has officially become a ‘girl job’ on Slapdash. I always come back from the experience feeling bedraggled, hassled and dehydrated. She gets offered tea, politely declines marriage proposals, gets offered comfy seats and basically gets treated like royalty. I was worried that her charms may not have worked this time because she said that they wanted both of us to come back to the police station with our passports. We had been traveling sort of um, under the radar since Turkey so I felt we had reason for concern. I was wrong. We showed up at the prescribed time and I watched in amazement as half the station came out and greeted Jaime like an old friend. They fussed over us for a while before we walked out the doors 30 minutes later with necessary stamps and papers. I was stunned and once we were a safe distance from the station found a bench and said to Jaime “is it just me or do you feel like we just got away with something?” At that moment a cop came running around the corner, saw us on the bench and asked us to “follow him back to the station”, and after a moments hesitation, “please”.
It turns out they had just kept the wrong copy of some form or another, but it definitely spiked my heart rate for a while there. It’s a good thing Jaime vetoed plan A; going for the guys sidearm on the way in.
We had some time to enjoy the place, a good blow was coming in from the North and we were in the perfect little hole to ride it out, and it would have been too if every single moron in the Med with a boat didn’t think exactly the same thing.
The day the bad weather was expected, more and more boats began to wedge themselves into the already packed anchorage. We watched in disbelief as a steady procession of sailboats and powerboats big and small elbowed their way in.
We spent the day trying to convince our fellow boaters (with varying degrees of intensity) that dropping their anchor right on top of ours and then hanging back so that our bow and their stern are LITERALLY touching was a really bad idea. This actually happened about three times, we haven’t seen anything like it before or (thankfully) since. Let me also point out that we were not being at all fussy. Those self-appointed anchor police guys that seem to think they are in charge of new boats arriving and so jump around on their deck, flapping arms, and shouting away at boats in German or something while they are trying to anchor really piss me off. It was a crowded anchorage, we were in for a blow, so of course expected things to be snugly. The people we chased away were the truly clueless cases, the `they aren’t seriously going to do that` people, and we tried to be nice about it. Except for this guy:
At one point during this truly educational day, we were t-boned. Another first for Slapdash. So this brain dead ass-clown was one of those boats that anchored right on top of us. Do these people realize that you have an anchor too, and that they are going to (at best) dislodge it, and (at worst) get tangled up in it virtually guaranteeing unwanted drama? He took some convincing but eventually had the good sense to move. Apparently we had just witnessed the limit of his `good sense` though.
Once he had the anchor up, he put his boat in gear and then went up on deck to start trying to tie the anchor down. We watched in disbelief as the boat slowly chugged around in a wide arc and eventually headed straight for Slapdash amidships. We ran up on deck and started yelling at this guy, assuming he would see what was going to happen and get to his helm. This was the second time we overestimated his grey matter. After looking up he decided he would be better off on the bow trying to stop his boat from hitting us by hand. Unless he was Superman this was a plan doomed to fail. Jaime and I were waiting for the guy and all 3 of us tried to dampen the impact. Crunch!
I was distracted from trying to kill the guy because Jaime had the jump on me and was trying to do the same. It was a reflexive thing and I totally regret it. After he took off without so much as a `sorry` I wished I had held him instead of Jaime.
We inspected the damage and almost couldn’t believe our eyes, apart from a gauge on the thick galvanized rub rail, there was none! A few inches lower and he probably would have punched through the hull, but his bowsprit lined up perfectly with this hard rubber strip which did an exceptional job. I did notice that his chain roller was all bent over and messed up so we derived some satisfaction from having come out of the thing with less damage. Another guy came over in his dinghy and offered us some pictures of the other boat (that was now long gone) so that we could take them to the police if we wanted. I felt that a third trip to the police station in one day would be really pressing our luck so we declined.
After that we really didn’t want anything to do with the inevitable anarchy once the wind picked up, it was already bad enough and there was still no wind. We began looking for alternative anchorages. There were none suitable within range, so in the end we were forced to make the most of this one. We knew the wind would be changing direction later, and since nobody wanted to be at the back of the pack we were able to find an opening there. Being at the back means that everyone who drags is going to crash into you, so we were counting on the wind change to reverse our fortunes and put us right up front.
There was enough space back there for me to let out a good 100 feet of chain, so in shallow water like this with decent holding we would be going nowhere. Then we sat back and watched boat after boat come in, dump 5 or 10 meters of chain in a pile on top of their anchor, then without a second glance shut off the engine and start pouring drinks. It was going to be a disaster. The wind clocked around right on schedule at 11PM and at once went from zero knots to 35. It was from the north so we were now comfortably located in the pole position, and not one boat ahead of us.
Behind us it took 30 seconds for the first boat to drag into the boat behind it. This dislodged their anchor and tangled up together they charged through the anchorage like a wrecking ball. Then a 60 foot million dollar power boat at the back decided to light up the whole scene with his massive spotlight, completely blinding everyone in the process. This of course led to more crashing as boats no longer anchored drove into boats that were because they couldn’t see. I’m not sure what their intentions were but it didn’t matter because pretty soon they were dragging too. For the next two hours running lights were flicking on and off, engines were firing up, screams and shouts intensified just before crunching sounds, all the while boats circled around the anchorage in the dark. Total chaos, anchoring anarchy, a true Med mash-up! Fortunately our shallow draft had us up in a no-go zone for most of these boats so nobody tried to anchor in front of us in the dark. We sat there and watched this gut wrenching show with front row seats until things finally started to simmer down at last by 3AM.
The wind would be out of the south for the next few days so we took the opportunity to get out of Mahon and explore the rugged northern coastline. This area has some beautiful and seldom visited calas (coves) which were perfect for our needs, well and truly sick of the human race at this point a few days exploring totally isolated anchorages were just what we needed. Our first stop was in Albufera, a beautiful place where Jaime`s kayak was stolen on our first night. We were clearly not far enough away yet. At the next stop we celebrated the 4 year anniversary of our trip (August 31st). Soon we had recovered and were ready for a new island, despite all the crazy stuff happening we really enjoyed Menorca.
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Looking back at it now I can see that I`ve kind of highlighted the bad stuff, but the island really is beautiful and we would soon learn that it is the most chilled, and although a little sleepy it`s the least touristic of all the Balearics.
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Sardin. Eeeeeaaaah!
Sardinia was a 200 mile sail away from Sciacca. We made landfall in Carbonara Bay and dropped the anchor in 10 feet of gin clear water over top of white sand. It was our best Med sail yet, following everything… wind, sea and current. The perfect sailing trifecta. Skeptics might suggest that our positive frame of mind from the great passage has led to the above description of our first Sardinian anchorage. I would suggest that these sceptics have never anchored their boat in Carbonera Bay in perfect weather. Doing so would silence any doubters, but don’t take my word for it, just look at this picture and form your own opinions.
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You know what can really ruin living on a boat in a post card like that? When the ideal beach surrounding your impeccable anchorage is full of gorgeous people.
And you know what can ruin that? Tough question I know. First of all what could be worse than putting up with this translucent Mediterranean blue water, immaculate weather and the most beautiful people you have ever seen cavorting around on powdery white sand?
I’ll tell you; when these beautiful people also happen to be clothing averse.
Yes, it’s true. Day in and day out this awful picture was made even worse by tanned up, toned down goddesses playing paddleball, rubbing sun tan oil on each other and just generally frolicking around with their disgustingly faultless brown breasts bouncing around for all the world to see.
It’s almost enough to make a guy move back to Canada where practical things like frostbite, business casual dress codes, and sensibly repressive British backgrounds prevent disturbing scenes like these from playing out. All you can do is try to take it one day at a time.
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These girls are also gifted with some kind of super crazy revved up metabolisms or something. Countless times we would see them sitting down and eating a giant pizza or plate of pasta that we would have split and still left feeling stuffed. Maybe they all have bulimia, but it happened enough times for us both to leave us scratching our heads. Then Jaime reminded me that they all carry a dormant mustache and uni-brow gene.
When we couldn’t handle it anymore we took on a massive seven mile passage to the other side of Carbonara point. We anchored near the marina in front of this really nice beachside campground. The well equipped campground provided us with easy access to water, showers, a coin operated washing machine, a little grocery store, a spot to land the dinghy, and buy pizza. We’ve been really enjoying the clear warm water here in Sardinia, which causes the occasional Caribbean flashback… or premonition depending on how you want to look at it.
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A few days later we moved on to Marina Del Sol in Cagliari Bay. Another smelly marina with lazy lines so scummy you don’t want to touch with your hands or boat. Fortunately the marina is run by a super friendly chilled out helpful guy. He will rent you his car by the hour and is the first person in the Med we’ve met who hasn’t flinched when I asked about filling our propane bottles. This has been a surprising problem for us here. This is the third place we have managed to get them filled (Albatross Marina in Marmaris, and an out of the way little store on Santorini were the other two). We just assumed that having managed well through the Pacific islands, Indian Ocean etc that the EU should be no sweat. We couldn’t have been further off base. If you manage to find a place at all here it will likely be the most expensive LPG you will ever buy; generally in the 50 euro neighborhood to fill one typical 20lb tank. I won’t bore you with our LPG challenges too much more, only to say that we were really stoked that this place was not only able to fill them, but the guy actually picked them up and dropped them off right at the boat.
On August 13th we tried to leave Sardinia, but Sardinia had other plans. We were hammered just trying to get out of Cagliari bay. It took something like 7 hours to make less than 20 miles and for the second time in the Med we bailed. The chart showed some little niche in between some rocks that looked sheltered. We pulled in with plans to anchor for dinner and then get back underway once the wind had blown through. Instead we found ourselves in yet another beautiful bay with a nice beach (Co Di Pula?).
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Our little wireless modem enabled us to download a new forecast which gave us the excuse we needed to stick around a little longer. In the Med Neptune has home field advantage. When he tries to tell you something you need to listen. We were a willing audience, and spent a few more days doing what we do best; idling and lollygagging around.
01-Jan-2007 00:14, PENTAX Corporation PENTAX Optio W30, 3.3, 6.3mm, 0.008 sec, ISO 64 |
01-Jan-2007 00:43, PENTAX Corporation PENTAX Optio W30, 6.6, 6.3mm, 0.008 sec, ISO 64 |
01-Jan-2007 00:45, PENTAX Corporation PENTAX Optio W30, 3.3, 6.3mm, 0.003 sec, ISO 64 |
In one anchorage I took this picture of our neighbors trying to get to shore. Sometimes visitors make fun of our dinghy, let this be a lesson to you all; it could be worse.
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And no, they didn’t make it to shore without sinking.
In another anchorage I took a picture of this family out for a Sunday drive.
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Sardinia really surprised us. We weren’t expecting to but found some stellar spots despite ourselves. An all around totally protected little pocket bay, some really touristic places, a whole stretch of coastline dotted with caves and coves. In Sicily we wanted to get off the boat and explore inland because of the crappy anchorages and marinas. Sardinia was the opposite; we were full time sun and sand water babies. We snorkeled through caves, Jaime kayaked through coves. We climbed rocks and jumped off cliffs into perfectly formed round cauldrons.
01-Jan-2007 00:34, PENTAX Corporation PENTAX Optio W30, 6.6, 6.3mm, 0.005 sec, ISO 64 |
01-Jan-2007 00:31, PENTAX Corporation PENTAX Optio W30, 6.6, 6.3mm, 0.004 sec, ISO 64 |
01-Jan-2007 00:33, PENTAX Corporation PENTAX Optio W30, 6.6, 6.3mm, 0.005 sec, ISO 64 |
August 18th brought favorable conditions along with it. We stuffed our freezer full of Italian meat, and the cupboards full of olives, coffee, wine, cheese and chocolate. We were loaded up for another 200 mile passage and another country… Next stop? Spain.
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See? Silly. A great place to eat horsey.
We left Kythira on July 29th and sailed 450 miles west to Sicily. It was a rough, close hauled affair summed up nicely by our log entry on July 30th:
“Nice sunset, otherwise terrible.”
N’uff said. Should the birthplace of the infamous Cosa Nostra be anything but a challenging and dangerous undertaking?
We arrived in Likata and took a berth due to the shortage of anchorages on Sicily’s southern coast line. We tied up in the typical Med ‘stern to’ style and started providing Slapdash with some post-passage pampering; scrubs and suds.
Likata is an old, dirty, charming, and real Sicilian town. We loved it even before I found this little local “bring your own container” winery where you could pull an extremely drinkable red straight from the keg for a dollar a jug. Jaime fell head over heels for the place and threatened to rent an apartment and live there permanently. She claims this was for the cozy cobblestone streets which thread their way through crumbling old colonial buildings and roman ruins.
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She also cited the fine chocolates, meats, wines, and the fact that it was virtually impossible to find a bad meal anywhere to further justify her position. A compelling case, but I immediately found it suspicious that she chose not to mention all the suave tall dark and handsome’s swanking around in fine footwear. Just to be safe I pointed out that every one of them carries a dormant Super Mario gene. It’s like a time bomb, at any time the gene could spring into action. Massive amounts of ear and nasal hair spontaneously sprout. Eyebrows take on epic proportions. One day you wake up next to a jolly broom-toting shopkeeper. Then I locked her in the boat.
A fellow named Ken from Tennessee enhanced this already great Sicilian experience. Ken had been following our story since the beginning and made it his habit to buy our first round whenever we arrived in a new country, an endearing quality. He has family in Sicily, and not only did our trips coincide, but we landed only 30 minutes away from his Mom’s village. So what do you do when life throws an improbable string of coincidences at you and the next thing you know the guy materializes on the dock behind your boat saying “Hello Slapdash!”? You put him to work! Ken grabbed a brush and a hose and seemed genuinely happy spending the afternoon mucking around on the boat, which led us to believe that he was really a great guy or a deranged lunatic. Fortunately he turned out to be from the former category, so when he invited us to go back to Butera with him we jumped at the chance to see a little more of this incredible country.
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Butera was stunning. Like, really stunning and being “with Ken” meant that we were instantly swept into its local scene. He was our kind of people; the kind that can spot a good street side vendor for dinner, and knows that drinking takeaway beers with locals is usually way more fun then spending 3 times the money for a generic experience without the chance to meet anyone new.
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So in the spirit of street-meat adventure, Ken led us over to a street side cafe to grab some dinner. How ‘bout a Panini? The guy behind the counter asked what we wanted in our sandwiches. I asked about these veal cutlet looking things in his display case. We had about a two word Italian vocabulary at this point, but Jaime has a bit of French. When the guy said “cavallo” Jaime whispered to me that the French word for horse is “cheval”. I looked back at the vendor and said “cavallo? Like this?” and started riding an invisible hobby horse on the spot. Perhaps excited by the moment of clarity and understanding amongst all parties the old vendor abruptly yelled “SI SI, CAVALLO LIKE THEES!” and began trying to outstage me by riding his own invisible hobby horse. Then another guy got into the act eventually showing us both up by cleverly adding surprisingly life-like horse whinnying sounds as he repeatedly slapped his own invisible hobby horse on the rump causing it to buck around in a little circle behind the counter.
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Jaime grew up with horses. She comes from a long line of cowboys and other assorted types of horse loving people. But what can you do after a multi cultural improv performance like that? You each order the damned horse meat sandwich that’s what! And you want to know the scary part? You like it. Then you wash away any lingering horsey remorse with the best damned Gelato on earth.
So after our horse meat Panini’s, we bagged some bottles and hung out with the local hoodlums in some beautiful centuries-old courtyard which, judging by the strong stench of urine in one poorly lit corner, gets used for these informal gatherings fairly regularly.
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After we shut down Butera at like 5am, Ken took us back to Likata and the next day we made loose plans to hook up again and said our goodbyes. Sadly the lack of good anchorages pushed us a little further down the coast than we initially expected killing off any hope of another night in Butera.
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Capo Bianco was a beautiful anchorage 40 miles west. We stayed there overnight underneath this beautiful limestone cliff face. The water was pristine, unfortunately it was also teeming with giant jelly fish. That combined with the total lack of protection kept us moving.
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The next day we sailed on to Sciacca and spent two nights in a marina, a dirty overpriced marina that smelled like a sewage treatment plant. When a marina welcomes you with a little basket containing a bottle of wine you know you’re in trouble. When they wanted to charge us double for being a catamaran I was forced to go through an old dance routine that I’m really sick of. Basically it consists of refusing to pay this ‘catamaran tax’ based on our tiny dimensions. Many modern mono hulls are as beamy, or beamier! We would be paying double the price of a boat beside us that takes up more room than Slapdash. This is something I’ve actually had to demonstrate to some marina staff: walk them down the dock, point at tiny Slapdash in her tiny slip and say you want to charge this boat 60 dollars and then pointing to the 50 foot mono hull with a 14 foot beam dwarfing us with her dimensions, that boat 30 dollars? The great thing is that it’s impossible to justify the cat tax in the face of this logic, and if the marina staff are reasonable (eight times out of ten they are) they don’t charge us, or just tack on 10% to save face or something. I just get really tired of having to run through this stupid charade every time.
Eventually we won the Sciacca marina people over to our way of thinking. We also found a place with dollar beers outside the marina so things were looking up.
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I guess a positive side to the anchoring and marina drama in Sicily is that if it wasn’t for it we would probably still be there having fallen prey to a ‘too good too easy’ combination that can turn travelers into stayers if they aren’t careful. Sicily is too good. Danger.
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A Greek Ballad
The plan was simple if truth be told
Two days to Athens if weather would hold
We had no clue what Neptune had in store
After one night it blew 40 and more
Shelter was found but ‘twas no Shangri-La
The charts named our rock Astipalia
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Wind howled through the rigging, we were in its teeth
But safe in a lee, our anchor snug beneath
In Athens wait an Austrian babe and stout Irish lad
But Slappy was stuck and desolation drove us mad
Our friends understood having worked long at sea
The delay they guessed wherever we be
Winds finally changed as they’re apt to do
In Paros a hull lay at anchor, we know who!
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Palapa Palapa, this is Slapdash on one-six
We’re really here and this time no tricks!
He slept through our calls, on Slapdash a frown
We’ll side tie to his boat and shut the engine down
The clamour brought Captain Hayward on deck
Bright eyed? No way. Aloha boxer shorts? Check
For two days and one night the Paros marina was a treat
20 miles from Mykanos, 15 euro? Sweet
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From there we made contact with babe and stout lad
Seats on a ship bound for Mykanos they had
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In little Venice the stage was set
For the reunion, how little we slept
Chris was now shaggy and Nina a blonde
Those whose hair I’ve mentioned we are very fond
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The next morning we woke and Little Venice it rolled
Sheltered water ‘round the corner (or so we’d been told)
Roger was right and a sandy bay we found
Revelry and hilarity abound all around
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A pause here for an auspicious day of note
July third had special meaning on this boat
On that day an undisclosed amount of years prior
On faraway continents two children were sired
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In Austria ‘twas Nina, in Canada, me
Years later met Chris, Nina, Seth ‘n Jaime
I could go on but this is filling a chapter
We share a birthday, my thirty fifth, and… ask her
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Our finery donned we made for the town
If garb matched behaviour we should have dressed down
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On this night we soared beyond modest means
seaside and seafood like rock stars you’ve seen
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Were we finished or kicked out, no one knows for sure
This we pondered with models on leopard spot fur
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Back aboard on the Slapdash things soon went awry
What’s the deal with that flip flop? I don’t know this guy
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We danced in the dinghy, on deck, even dodger
8AM, hung over, whose knocking? Bloody Roger
Keel haul him! No wait, get the water board
Oh he brought coffee? Then ask him aboard
We broke fast together the coffee it did save me
With heads full of webs we sailed to Santorini
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Two days later the crater of a volcano we found
Its last eruption grand but now views astound
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Sailing through the crater, “still active” said the guide
Lunch was Spaghetti Bolognese that Chris had supplied
No slackers on this boat we drank Slapdash dry
In a fisherman’s harbour we replenished supplies
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Palapa dredged its way in to meet this friend George
The next day on quads into the country we forged
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10 days had passed so the conclusion we reached
To visit an anchorage nearby its name was Red Beach
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Before we knew it and far too soon
Winds shifted again their departure loomed
Our last night at anchor did not go to waste
But alas morning came time for us to make haste
In a cloud of dust their cab disappeared
It’s a magical life with friends so dear
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Transients and travelers can form bonds in iron cast,
Their time together is sweet for they know it won’t last
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Kythira beckoned after another week at the volcano
So we ate one last gyro for luck and were good to go
A twenty four hour sail from the crater
We pointed due west and 100 miles later
White sand and azure water beckoned the hull
Hello Kythira, a sleep and a swim please that`s all
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Avlemonas held us captive in her Mediterranean stare
A sleep and swim be damned, 10 days later? Yep, still there
Whilst we played landside a cozy berth Slapdash did need
Here`s one with power and water. What else? It`s free!
Further waylaid by Austrians we met at the bar
Over ouzo they admitted to having a rental car
The next day at breakfast we made plans for the day
A hike and a swimming hole that blew us away!
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On July 28th our Greek saga did end
Playtime over now the high seas we would fend
We wondered where to go (only half in jest)
No problem, whenever in doubt we always go west
I hope you`ve enjoyed this ballad of the Greek isles
Because my cup of wine is empty and it took quite a while
I’m no poet so hope our pictures picked up the slack
If not then blow me a kiss, I`ll plant it firmly on my crack.
Slapdash out.
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