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Smir, Morocco to Almerimar, Spain
June 5 to July 12, 2009

“What d’you mean I can’t take any clothes?” I asked. Steve’s list to pack was long – a heat exchanger, depth sounder transducer and housing, oil filters, his new all weather outfit on sale from West Marine, his new toy – a Mini Mac and marine monitor, equestrian lunging straps for the bimini, radiator piping, water pump brass plate, not to mention the smaller fittings that boaters carry around in their pockets. It was tit for tat when I asked Steve to reduce the cargo to a respectable limit – two bottles of Mount Gay rum were taken out reluctantly. I almost swear I saw tears. We were packing to rejoin Whitestar where we left her in Morocco last October.

Tourism, although welcome here does not dominate the culture as it does in the rest of the Mediterranean. Tourists developments are kept separate and do not impinge on local daily life. There are plenty of fishing ports that have been used for thousands of years and beautiful anchorages; an unspoiled coastline ripe for sailors to explore. We sailed here from Gibraltar in 2008 to leave Whitestar for a year and avoid the European VAT tax where foreign registered vessels are required to pay tax (19%) if in the EU for over 18 months.

Our plane from Madrid landed in Tangiers airport and we joined the long line of passengers waiting to go through customs. On reaching passport control, Steve was asked to follow an official and I was told to go on to the baggage claim. I had no idea what was happening and reluctantly went on to pick up our bags. When the last passenger left the baggage area, Steve showed up. He was asked to take a swine flu test as Canada is on the same side of the world as Mexico and although I was living in Canada too, I was not required to do the test. Maybe my Irish passport got me out of that one. Steve said it’s because I’m a woman and don’t count.

We rounded the corner with ‘phew we’re almost there’ expressions and could see the doors to outside where Yassin, our Moroccan taxi driver, was waiting. Our faces fell when we saw yet another customs agent gesturing us towards an x-ray machine
“What’s the puck at the end of the long wire and the tubular objects that sit inside the cylinder?” This was all said in French, of course. Steve responded in English (Hint, always respond in your native language to a customs officer). All was well when he spotted the oil filters and realized we were just another pair of boaters. Do you like Morocco? He asked as he packed our booty back in the bag. “Oh yes!” we responded enthustically.

When we arrived at Marina Smir later that day, Whitestar looked majestic up on the hard even with the red sand that covered her. Despite our fears, the secure Spanish run marina had looked after her well. The King of Morocco keeps his fleet at Smir so we figured correctly that our baby ship would be safe there.

We spent the next five days getting her ready to go in the water. Steve, with help from a Moroccan technician installed the depth sounder transducer although he had to look away when the technician cut the hole through the hull – an anxious moment for both of them, I’m sure. I painted the hull and my hair and sunglasses with anti-fouling paint. We cleaned the water intake plate that was inadvertently painted over when the hull had been refinished in Portugal; leaving only 50% intake capacity. Steve expected this would solve the water overheat problem that plagued us. The lift into the water was perfect and Steve proceeded to the dock when the gearshift stuck in forward (the linkage lubrication had dried up and didn’t respond to the helm). He turned off the engine and we glided in and tied up.

Aidan, an Irish sailor who has a little house nearby and a boat in the marina, offered to take us to the huge supermarket in the town of Tetouan, to buy our provisions. I was amazed at the size of the booze and beer aisle as I thought Moroccans didn’t indulge. We filled Aidan’s little car and then went downtown for a traditional coffee. I felt like I had stepped back in time; as the locals went about their business in traditional dress and donkeys with heavy loads mingled with the traffic.

Ready at last, we sailed out of Smir and headed south to Penon de Velez de la Gomera or Spanish Rock. Within an hour the engine overheated and we were back to being a true sailboat. The Rif Mountains provided the backdrop as we sailed by little towns and villages that have only recently received electricity. The rock, although Spanish territory, is joined to Morocco by a narrow strip of silted land; and the Moroccans want it back. We anchored away from the rock to avoid being hassled by either the Spanish or Moroccan police. Shortly after we dropped anchor a little wooden boat with a Moroccan policeman and a fisherman from the village who spoke a little English, rowed out to check our paperwork. Everything was in order so off they went and the fisherman came back with his young son a little while later to sell us some fish.

The next day we set sail to Cala Tramontana, a small fishing community set in a cove beside Ras Baraket. This horseshoe shaped bay is surrounded by the dry Tieta Madair hills, down which donkeys trek to retrieve water for the fishing village. We spent three days here swimming around the boat and watching the locals play soccer in 35 degree heat.

Well rested and relaxed, we took on the next leg of the journey – rounding the Cabo Tres Forcas and heading south to another Spanish enclave on the Moroccan coast, the town of Melilla. The sun shone relentlessly and we viewed the rocky coastline through a yellow haze we found out later was sand. At one point we spotted a black haze coming toward us and in a moment of déjà vue we felt we were back in Cuba when hailed by a Cuban gunboat. They even used the same tactic, sneaking up behind, as if we couldn’t see their huge plumb of exhaust smoke. Three pleasant naval officers came alongside and asked if one could board to do a quick search. As he prepared to step on board, Steve asked him if he would remove his boots, which he politely did. A quick glance in each cabin and the odd drawer opened here and there, and they were satisified we were not running kif to Spain. As if we could compete with the cigarette boats that run nightly between the two coasts. “Tell the world we have a navy here,” said one young officer and off they went in a cloud of smoke.

The original Moorish town of Medina Sidonia was built as a fort in 1497 and has grown over the past few hundred years into Melilla, a possession of Spain on the North African coast. It is a duty-free mecca for Spaniards and Moroccans and smuggling still goes on here, reminding one of the way Gibraltar was a few years ago. We explored the narrow streets looking for a video connector for the navigation screen, missing from the shipment. No luck finding that, however we did find a Burger King.

Our tight deadline to return to Canada pushed us to leave this delightful country behind and sail to Almerimar in Spain where we planned to leave Whitestar for another year. Both Steve and I really enjoyed sailing this part of Morocco; we embraced the slower pace of life and the reminder of how valuable it is to keep traditions alive. The Moroccans we met are a warm and curious people who made us feel very welcome. We will spend more time in Morocco on our return through the Western Med.