life on the ocean wave

It started with a bang – a cracking sound underneath the sole of the cockpit at my feet and the wheel coming loose in my hands, obviously detached from the rudder. With a great roar of flapping sails Arquimedes rounded up out of control, beam-to the seas. A mere three hours and 20 miles into the trip, this was not what we had signed up for.

“A bracket broke, wot holds a sheave wot holds a steering cable”, was the explanation we later came up with, in best technical jargon (since you ask). Fortunately, the autopilot connects directly to the steering quadrant and after a few minutes of mayhem, taking down and securing the sails while being mercilessly pounded by waves, we were on our way to Sesimbra, tails between our legs but safe and sound. That it happened in daylight – and within striking distance of a safe port with shipbuilding and repairing facilities – was pure luck.

20 miles gone, 730 to go.

Leaving Cascais; a glimpse of the J-Class Endeavour ("The Darling Jade") tied at the marina; USS Dwight D. Eisenhower almost blocking the river mouth; calm before the storm; the providential shipyard and a beautiful example of its craftsmanship

Two days later – mechanical problem solved and bureaucratic hassles circumvented (that is a story for another day) – we were back at sea, running down to Portimão, there to hook up with La Novia our companion boat for the rest of the trip (and which, out of sympathy, had had a steering problem of their own).

Although that put a temporary damper in our spirits and a hiccough in our voyage – thereafter we would be playing catch up all the time – the fact is that the weather forecast of fierce easterlies (the infamous Levante) in the Straits of Gibraltar meant that we couldn’t get into the Mediterranean anyway, not for the next few days.

So we sat at Portimão, licking our wounds, visiting friends and relatives (and a busy shipyard), and generally getting organized for the push east. The Fool transferred to La Novia at this stage, for a more equitable distribution of crew abilities between the two boats.

170 miles gone, 560 to go

On our way at last; cargo mirage; first night at sea, and arrival at Portimão/Ferragudo; the shipyard at Portimão.

Eventually it was decided to make our approach in short hops, first to Mazagón (La Novia, having become ready earlier, even put in an intermediate stage at Culatra, where I saw a colony of my beloved Wharram catamarans and, more excitingly, had my first sighting of a Cal 40, a mythical landmark in ocean racing history), where we arrived one late afternoon after a simple, quick passage. Arquimedes, however, some 5 hours behind, was confronted by unexpectedly nasty seas and a rogue wave which put a wall of green water over their decks and down their forehatch. That required another day of rest and recuperation, so we would have to make our next port of call as near as possible to the Straits, to make up for lost time.

270 miles gone, 480 to go

Culatra; a neat grey cutter with a very pretty dinghy tied alonside; Wharrams on the beach; a powder-blue Cal 40 to set the Fool's blood racing.

That was Barbate – a nondescript town like so many on this coast, but one which would surprise tuna lovers in the crews with some of the best tuna steak they had ever eaten – where we hoped to stop and make ready for the weather window forecast for the following day, which would allow us to finally pass the Pillars of Hercules, almost a week later than first planned.

We would still be made to sing for our supper, though, on the approach to cape Trafalgar – surprisingly modest for such a historically significant landmark – and Barbate, where we were handed a pasting by strong winds and short steep seas, compounded by the complication of avoiding large tuna nets on the way to the cape, and at the very entrance to the harbour of all places (that’s how they catch the best tuna in the world – some, the man in the restaurant claimed, hovering around 500 or 600 kilos, as heavy as a Miura fighting bull).

350 miles gone, 400 to go

Dawn departure from Mazagón; dodging the fishing fleet; Arquimedes valiantly singing for her supper; Cape Trafalgar.

The following day, as predicted, the crossing itself was uneventful, if cold: 20 knots of wind on the nose, but no seas to speak of, and once round Tarifa – the southernmost point of continental Europe, just 8 miles from Africa, visible out of the murk off our starboard bow – as the route inflected northwestwards, the wind decreased steadily and the seas abated to typically Mediterranean glassy conditions.

Gibraltar was spectacular, as always, and a pair of dolphins came to bid us welcome into the fabled Wine Dark Sea. (At least that’s how I saw it; the Princess of Ireland, sailing on Arquimedes, who claims to interact with dolphins, says that Spanish dolphins are “much less cordial” than our own. Perhaps she has a point, for, unlike ours tend to do, these didn’t stay long. Others came later for a similarly short visit, and still others, a few nights later, made a spectacular appearance in the dark, coming at us from the side at 20 knots, twin trails of phosphorescence looking like nothing so much as a pair of torpedoes from a U-Boot, and giving the Fool – standing his lonely eleven-to-two watch – a royal fright before he realised what they were.)

With the passage of the Straits completed, a short conference held across the water between the two boats made us set our objective for the day’s journey at Fuengirola. The weather was propitious, the winds for once not directly on the nose, allowing us to complement motoring with some sail power for a bit more speed and economy. This day we passed the halfway mark of the journey.

The least said about Fuengirola the better – typical Costa del Sol overbuilding, including loads of expatriate Brits of dubious appearance. There we slept, watered, fueled and victualled.

425 miles gone, 325 to go

Entering the Straits, Tarifa to port, Africa, barely visible out of the murk to starboard; rounding the Rock, with mosque and Europa Point lighthouse in the foreground; flat calm; unfriendly dolphins (so we are told).

Next stop, Cartagena – Qart Hadasht –, whence Hannibal famously took his army and his 37 war elephants north and east across Pyreneean and Alpine passes, and down into the Italic peninsula, there to wreak havoc for 15 years among the armies of the Roman Republic (the sheer audacity of the man, a hero to every school boy of my generation!). Cartagena was the one port which would warrant a longer stop, but unfortunately our time was up and we couldn’t stay more than one night. A place to put on a calendar for some other day.

605 miles gone, 145 to go

Deep into the Wine Dark Sea; hello Cartagena, goodbye Cartagena; Carthaginian cat.

At last, it was time to leave the continent behind and head for the islands. To commemorate, we tried sailing out, even though the wind didn’t let us point directly at the barn. But a lightening breeze and lumpy seas soon had us motorsailing again, and after another uneventful night, Ibiza finally rose out of the horizon off our port bow in the early morning, with the flatter, smaller profiles of Espalmador and Formentera to starboard.

Land-ho! Ibiza to port, Espalmador and Formentera to starboard; Ibiza harbour; Old Town by night (only the seemly bits).

Almost two weeks and 750 miles after leaving Cascais we had arrived. Just in time to welcome the rest of the cruising party, who would land in the evening plane out of Seville to join us for supper ashore, and a stroll in the old streets of Ibiza town among its flashy, exotic, exhibitionist denizens.

The Fool is an ageing conservative white male, but – he likes to think –, not particularly curious, prurient or judgmental about other people’s lives and lifestyles. So I only took pictures of the streets and architectural points of interest. But I am informed to have been seen ambling around all night, mouth open in a daze of stupor and incredulity. I say it was simply the tiredness of two weeks at sea, but I’m not sure I am believed.

Arquimedes and friends, beacons of style in a sea of bling.

And then there followed a week of going around the islands, from cala to cala, glorious meal to glorious meal, lazy swim in warm turquoise waters to lazy swim in warm azure waters, in the company of close friends.

Memories are made of this.