April 1 to 19, 2011

Steve and I were a little apprehensive flying back into Tunisia. The country was struggling to return to normal after a recent revolution. Or maybe it was the new Luke Folding Propeller weighing heavily in our luggage or the other boat bits and pieces distributed between three large suitcases. Don, a sailor from Deep Bay British Columbia, and fellow Cuba grounding adventurer, graciously packed only 10 lbs of clothes to allow us to bring the extra in his case. The customs man waved us through.

Our English friend Mick decked out in a red bandana was a welcome sight outside Tunis airport. He confirmed our observation that life was pretty much back to normal. The tourists have not returned and the loss of income is evident in the increased persistence of the baggage helpers. One pushy helper grabbed the largest bag right off the trolley and hoisted it onto his back. Of course he would pick the one with the propeller in it. After transporting it safely halfway around the world and through several airport securities, I had visions of it hitting the pavement and breaking. I tackled him and wrestled it back.

On the drive to Hammamet, Mick regaled us with tales of the uprising and brought us up-to-date on the country’s political situation. The upcoming elections already had 40 parties running, potentially causing further unrest. This along with the difficulty arranging boat insurance in a warzone made it a good time to take Whitestar out of Tunisia.

Mick and Joe live aboard in marina Yasmin. They stayed through the upheaval partly because the military had the foresight to protect the marina and nearby hotels; a valuable source of income and an integral part of the tourist industry. They witnessed minor looting and related how locals, from rich to poor, came together to establish neighbourhood watch committees to look after their properties. As Mick pulled up to the Rodriguez Shipyard, the sun scorched down and shone on Whitestar sitting majestically on the hard. Steve took his shiny new propeller out of the suitcase for shipyard staff to install and we stood back to admire it and the boat’s new bottom paint job.

We spent the rest of the day preparing Whitestar to go in the water – bent the sails, rigged lines, opened thru-hulls, reinstalled the raw water impellor, filled water tanks, topped up the tanks with diesel, removed the scratch pads from the thru-hulls, installed the anchor and safety equipment, and set off to provision for a limited variety of meat, fruit, vegetables and beer. Mick showed us where to shop economically and pay local prices.

The Domain Atlas wine we left onboard was one year older and very palatable (a blessing considering we had 25 bottles). Later, despite being tired and jet-lagged, we went out for Tunisian fare with Mick and Joe.

Next morning, Steve went to the customs police to file our departure. They insisted he was missing an important form. After two hours they conveniently discovered it was in their possession all along. They came back to the boat with him ostensibly to inspect it. I could hear them saying to each other (in French) how grand it was. One turned to Steve and asked for a gift. They both asked for Dinar and he said he had none. They asked for Euros. He said he had none. They asked for alcohol and he said he had none (don’t know how he did it with a straight face). They shifted from foot-to foot while continuing to badger Steve but he held his ground and said “no.” They left, reluctantly. It seems at this time everyone has his hand out for something.

Imagine my surprise when I went to the marina office to get my 20 Euro deposit back on the washroom key, the manager handed me 10 Dinar (3 Euro). He grew quite irate when I asked for the deposit I had given last year and started yelling at me. At this point I’d had it with their sense of entitlement and greed, and yelled back. It was quite funny to see the shocked look on the faces of a male and female staff standing nearby. I don’t think the sight of a woman stand up to a man is common. I didn’t get my Euro but did get a little satisfaction telling the manager that cruisers don’t like to be cheated and would avoid marina Yasmin (we heard many already do) if they continue with their antics, and left.

When I returned to Whitestar, Steve and Don were preparing to depart. Steve wanted a quick exit before someone else decided they wanted a gift. We motored out of the marina and into calm seas and sunny skies. An hour later, Steve pointed to four shapes on the horizon not on the nav system or paper charts. We kept an eye on them and finally recognized cardinal buoys sitting to the west. Don thought they might be building a marine fishery or maybe a tunnel to Italy. Steve expressed relief when we were out of Tunisian waters and could see our destination in the distance.

The volcanic island of Pantelleria, or ‘Black Pearl of the Mediterranean,’ sits between Tunisia and Sicily and is part of Italy. Our original intent was to visit the island of Lampadeusa, which is closer to the rhumb line for Malta. We changed course when we heard thousands of Tunisian refugees were over-running this tiny island. The locals had enough to deal with. It was late evening when we made our approach to Pantelleria’s harbour. The pilot book had nothing good to say about anchoring in the outer harbour. Steve carefully picked his way through the lines of small fishing boats. We tied up in the dark, North American-style, on an empty pontoon near two coastguard vessels.

It’s always interesting to come into a new place at night and then catch the first glimpse of your surroundings in daylight. The next morning we sipped tea on deck and drank in the sight of the small town sitting under the imposing Montagna Grande, its volcanic peak high above the clouds. Steve and Don took off in search of the local police station to clear into Italy. Two coastguard officials came by to say we couldn’t stay on the official coastguard dock. I asked where we should move, gesturing at the lack of tie-up space for big boats. The officer with the best English asked how long we’d be staying. We’re leaving this afternoon, after we do some shopping,” I said. “Okay, no problem, stay where you are,” he replied.

“Did you check in?” I asked when Steve and Don returned. “No,” Steve said. “They couldn’t find the ink pad to stamp our passports.” The wind was starting to freshen and while Steve checked the weather on his Blackberry, Germans Sven and Gaby from the sailboat anchored in the outer harbour came by. They asked if we’d seen the weather prediction for a gale later that evening. As we watched large fishing boats coming in to shelter, Sven and Gaby decided they would move beside us for better protection and went to get permission from the coastguard.

At happy hour, Steve invited our new neighbours onboard Whitestar for cocktails. They brought along their non-English speaking Italian farmer friend. He invited us to try his home grown salt-cured capers and Passito, a sweet wine made from the local grapes for which the island is famous. The conversation was a mix of English, Spanish and Italian and topics ranged from the North African migration to the changing face of Europe. Sven pointed to four battered dinghys at the end of the coastguard boat and told us they arrived several nights ago, full of Tunisians. On approach to the harbour, they dumped their outboard motors overboard, forcing the Italian coastguard to ‘rescue’ them. Now it made sense why two fishing trawlers were anchored outside the harbour rather than sheltering inside. They’re Tunisian fishermen (although one boat had about 20 people onboard) and had been refused permission to land in case they claimed refugee status like thousands of their fellow countrymen. The coastguard maintained a 24-hour watch on them until the gale subsided and they could leave for home.

The next morning after Steve extinguished a little fire and replaced a water hose, we headed into town to provision. (Notice to mariners: do not store leaky cans of bug spray containing DEET beside water hoses and electrical wires). We walked around the narrow streets dropping into the butcher, the baker, couldn’t find the candlestick maker, but did frequent the green grocer, and a small supermarket.

We left Pantelleria with a large bag of capers and 10 liters of Passito, bound for Gozo, one of three islands in the Maltese archipelago. The gale died enough to experience a perfect downwind sail. Steve was delighted with the performance of his Christmas present – the new feathering prop. In these light wind conditions we were picking up an extra knot.

The island of Gozo sits northwest of Malta and is believed to be Ogygia, the home of the nymph Calypso in Homer’s Odyssey. An overnight sail would bring us into the harbour of Mgaar and a quieter port of entry than Valetta in Malta. I joined Don and Steve on deck the following morning and we sailed alongside towering cliffs and the imposing Fort Chambray, guarding the gateway of Gozo. We docked on the main wall behind a chip wagon and Don promptly went off to buy breakfast. A young man came over to welcome us to Gozo and said, “You have a Perkins engine.” How did he know? “If you need any work done, here’s my number, call me.” I was still standing with my mouth open when Don returned with burgers and fries.

After breakfast Steve went off walking in search of customs to check in. When he returned after being picked up by a nice customs officer driving through the little town (Steve obviously looks like a sailor), we moved Whitestar over to the marina. It was time to explore our new surroundings.

The town of Mgarr is built on gently terraced green slopes. We thought the best place to appreciate the view of the harbour and the blue lagoon of Comino in the distance would be the patio of the Grand Harbour Hotel. We walked up the hill to enjoy the scenery and a pint, and catch up on the latest international news on the hotel TV.

A 50 ft French trawler was parked across from Whitestar when we returned late afternoon. Dominique invited us onboard for a drink. I oohed and ahhed as he showed off his dishwasher, washing machine, dryer, icemaker and even a bread maker. I had fleeting thoughts of jumping ship until I realized he was more interested in Steve. He entertained us with stories of his solo sails in his large Beneteau trawler and told us how lucky we are to live in Canada. Once again we heard strong opinions on the ‘problems’ in Europe and the political views of people who feel over-run by immigrants not interested in blending with the local population.

For a second time, a gale blowing from the northwest kept us in port for two days. Our experience with the weather here tells us the 48 hrs forecast should be checked every six hours. We were getting typical spring weather; no wind for three days, two-day gales and one day waiting for the short choppy seas to calm down.

On Sunday morning we pulled out of Mgarr and motored under light winds and sunny skies to the Baroque city of Valetta on the coast of Malta.

Malta is one of the world’s smallest and most densely populated countries, with 350,000 people. Its location in the centre of the Mediterranean accounts for its rich turbulent history. Its had its share of visitors and occupiers, many of whom have left their mark, like the Arabs and their influence on the Maltese language and many place names. Although members of the European Union, the islanders consider themselves unique, neither North African nor European.

As we sailed into Valetta, we saw ample evidence of the Knights of Malta’s fortifications constructed after the great siege in 1565, navigating past Fort Saint Elmo, Fort Manoel, numerous bastions and watchtowers and into Msida marina. Imagine our surprise when we realized Kiwi just happened to be parked four boats down. Mick and Joe had given us Kiwi’s name and we planned to meet him here. Msida Marina is fully berthed with about 1,500 local boats. At the moment it’s free to moor here; a bureaucratic glitch prevents them from charging berthing fees. Kiwi has been waiting patiently for four months for someone to collect his dues.

We provisioned at the supermarket when we finally found it, sitting above a car dealership. Despite its camouflage, it is the first well-stocked store we encountered since the Spanish mainland.

Later, Maltese Canadians Lilian and Mario from the ‘Maltese Falcon’ noticed our Canadian flag and came by. Kiwi and his girlfriend Daniele and our Swedish neighbours also joined us for cocktails in the cockpit. When cruising sailors get together it’s a union of like-minded people who thrive in the exchange of adventures they have encountered on their voyages.

We left Malta in the late afternoon with the intent of a morning arrival in Sicily. Whitestar sailed along easily in perfect conditions; a light 10-knot wind on the quarter and no gales predicted (as yet). The radar indicated quite a large number of ships to our south and east. As night fell we listened to ‘loud and clear’ announcements on the VHF radio stating all ships in the area were expected to cooperate with the NATO Naval Task Force.

Steve and Don sailed gallantly through the night and through the Nato fleet with their strange light configurations and unusual radar signatures. Morning dawned on the Ionian Sea and the unremarkable landscape of the southeast coast of Sicily. After dodging a fishing fleet, we made our way around the point and into the harbour of Syracuse, which offered almost 360-degree protection and a sand bottomed anchorage.

Syracuse (or Siracusa) is the one of the first fully protected harbours we’ve encountered since Gibraltar. This former Greek city and important archaeological centre was a powerhouse through ancient times. Sought after and occupied by the Greeks, Romans, Vandals, Byzantines, Aghlabids, Normans, and the Mafia, the numerous churches, temples, tombs and amphitheatres reflect the distinct culture and architecture of its previous inhabitants.

Despite the city’s monumental political past, we were once again unable to check in to Italy. The coastguard told us it wasn’t necessary. Imagine walking through an airport and bypassing the passport control counter! It is often like that when checking in on a boat. Some countries watch your every move; others don’t even want to know you’re there. That’s fine by us; I just wish they were all consistent. Steve and I set off on foot with our gerry can to the nearest petrol station and stood in line among tiny cars for our turn at the pump. I was fascinated watching the locals pump just five Euros and wondered if they have to come back in an hour for more.

When we dinghied back to Whitestar we noticed the five boats previously tied to the town wall were now anchored beside us. We checked the weather and lo and behold, another gale was on the way. It seems the town wall has a nasty ledge underwater that can cause damage to boats moored there.

The next afternoon when the winds died, we departed for the picturesque fishing village of Brucoli (no, not Broccoli). Well, the tourist guide says it’s picturesque; by the time we sailed into the little bay and dropped anchor we could only see the lights of the houses and restaurants dotted around. Our anchor dragged twice and while I untangled grass and abandoned anchor lines, one of the lines ripped the brass tip off my fending pole. My favourite teak pole, stained and varnished to perfection, was broken. I was peeved, to say the least. The swell coming into the anchorage continued to increase and gusts coming down the mountain made it uncomfortable. We upped anchor and motored back one mile to the better protection of Augusta harbour.

The next morning we continued along the coast to the tourist town of Giardini Naxos. The stunning white beaches and turquoise waters caused Don to exclaim, “This is perfect!” We rounded the breakwater and dropped anchor behind three other sailboats. The spectacular snow-covered flanks of towering Mt. Etna, the highest and most active volcano in Europe, provided the perfect backdrop. The guys promptly jumped in the dinghy and headed over to town to find steak and beer. When their shopping was done, they discovered a family-owned restaurant that’s been around since 1951 and is famous for its stone oven pizza. Over a delicious dinner, we were entertained by the owner telling us about her childhood growing up in Sicily.

There was not a breath of wind when we pulled out of Naxos towards the Straits of Messina. Zeus gave us perfect conditions and Whitestar sliced through mirror-like water on the final leg of our journey.

The Straits of Messina is a channel separating the west coast of Sicily and the east coast of Italy. It also divides the Tyrrhenian Sea in the north from the Ionian Sea in the south. Twenty miles long and two miles wide at its narrowest point, the Straits were greatly feared by sailors in ancient times due to the presence of female sea monsters Scylla ‘the render’ and Charybdis ‘the sucker-downer.’ Four eyed, sharp-toothed, six-necked, grisly-headed Scylla with a body too frightening to describe, lived on one side of the narrow channel, directly across from equally terrifying Charybdis, forcing sailors to choose a side to favour; hence the source of the term, ‘being stuck between a rock and a hard place.’ We all know these girls didn’t really exist but when I saw a fin rise out of the water, my heart lurched. Lucky for us it was just a swordfish lolling around on the surface.

Today the Straits still garner the respect of sailors and generate anxious moments. The fast running turbulent tidal currents, whirlpools, waterspouts, and winds funneling through the narrow channel; often at odds with the current, provide challenging conditions. We did our research however, and calculated the best time to ride the north setting current.

At one point Steve noticed a dramatic change in our speed; increasing from 5.5 to 8 knots and a lot of rudder movement in the current eddies. The busy ferry route between Messina and Catona also kept Don and Steve busy. We listened to a new gale warning on the radio, contradicting the earlier forecast for smooth sailing.  We exited the Straits and rounded Capo Vaticano and felt the first effects of the gale; heavy swells, driving rain and increasing wind on the nose, forcing us to switch on the motor. The winds picked up to 30 knots with strong gusts off the cliffs. With darkness fast approaching and deteriorating weather conditions, we contemplated seeking shelter. A quick review of the pilot book showed Tropia marina one mile ahead. The sailboat ahead altered course and turned into the marina. The marina’s relatively small size, indications of silting and the fact it was on a lee shore, led to Steve’s decision it was not a safe haven for us. With 15 miles to our final destination we agreed to forge on. Whitestar could handle the weather after all.

The wind continued to build to full gale. We made slow but steady progress to windward under triple-reefed main and reefed jib, and getting some protection from the swell by hugging the shore. At one point we wondered how much worse it could be around the next headland when three boats passed us, running for shelter in the opposite direction.

At midnight, rounding the jetty into Vibo Valentia, we immediately felt the protection of the 300 ft cliffs surrounding the harbour. A welcoming destination indeed and a snug setting in which to leave Whitestar for the next few months. We enjoyed the next few days meeting the locals and decommissioning the boat.

After five years of cruising, Steve and I have reached the conclusion we’re not good tourists – often not bothering to visit the packaged sights, preferring to spend our time with fellow cruisers and interacting with the engaging locals we meet along the way. We are still surprised at our ability to communicate and share joi de vivre with the people we meet, even though we may not speak each other’s language. The poet William Butler Yeats said it best, “There are no strangers here; only friends you haven’t yet met.”

June 5 to 25, 2010

Two yellow blobs appeared on the left of the black radar screen and that was my cue to raise myself from my watch position on deck and scan the horizon. It was first light, the sun was yet to show and I could make out two blurry shadows in the distance. During the night we sailed from the Gulf of Cagliari through the Sardinian sea and were on the home stretch to Tunisia, 120 miles away. This time of the morning is conducive to deep thinking but my thoughts were interrupted by the nagging need to determine if we were on a collision course with two shadows. I watched on and off for half an hour as they morphed into freighters. I wished I had taken the time to learn how to use the bearing feature on the new radar that allows you to mark the other boat’s location and establish its course. I realized the first one would pass ahead of us but was unsure of the second. My eyes, the freighter’s speed, and my gut instinct screamed, “You’re on a collision course,” but I wanted to be really sure before I went below to wake Steve. I wondered how close would be too close, and that musing sent me scurrying to wake the expert. He came on deck and through bleary eyes confirmed we were indeed going to intercept. Before either of us could react, the freighter did a hard deek to starboard indicating he would pass behind us. “How nice of him,” I thought, even though we have right of way under sail. We never take it for granted that the bigger guy can, or even cares to see us.

Back went Steve to the warm tempur and back I went to my position on deck. Within minutes, the VHF radio, which had been quiet for my watch, exploded into life and shrieked coordinates into the air in English and French. Through the static I could make out some words: “All ships, all ships… under fire… stay clear from the following coordinates…” It sounded like someone was having a military exercise. “How come this all happens on my watch?” I grumbled. Down I went to check the coordinates on the chart and see if we were sailing into any of the affected areas. It soon became clear the exercises were being held just to the west of us, off the coast of Algeria, and out of range. It was time for a shift change and a long-awaited sleep for me.

Ian and Steve also played Freighter Dodgems on their watch as we sailed through busy shipping lanes. Early afternoon brought us in sight of the north coast of Africa and the Arab lands of the Maghreb. We sailed past little blue and white coastal towns sitting among a surprisingly green landscape sprinkled with vineyards and olive groves. An oasis, considering the Sahara desert lies two hundred miles to the south. As we approached one of the main ports of entry, Bizerte, two coastguard officials in a dinghy came out to greet us. They led us to a fishing dock in the harbour of Zarzouma; as the main marina was under construction. Tunisia is a popular destination with European sailors because of cheaper marina fees and a place to winter out of the EU. Many marinas are planned, and existing ones closed for redevelopment, to capitalize on the increased interest in this coast. This currently leaves very few places for boater’s to stay.

Checking in reminded us of Cuba, as the custom’s officer and coastguard checked our paperwork. The custom’s official asked if we had any alcohol onboard and Steve said we had beer, wine and some liquor. “The bottles of alcohol are open are they?” he led. “Of course,” said Steve. That’s what he wanted to hear. Wine and beer are not an issue but closed bottles of alcohol are. He asked Steve for a gift. Steve offered wine but he turned it down saying, I’m Muslim.”

The Coastguard officers who inspected us next, were very professional. It was Sunday so they arranged fuel (1 dinar per litre or less than half the price of Sardinia), a friend to change money for us, another friend to taxi us to town, and promised to keep an eye on Whitestar while we were gone.

The people of Bizerte appeared surprisingly modern and contradict their surroundings of biblical-looking buildings and narrow alleyways of hundreds of years ago. Men sit in cafes drinking coffee and young people walk around in modern dress. You still see older people in traditional dress but for the most part, Tunisia is more liberal than they would have you believe; both Tunisia and Morocco banned the burkah several years ago. We walked through streets assailed by the smell of fish grilling outside restaurants and enjoyed an early dinner in a boat restaurant floating in the town’s old harbour.

We pulled out of Zarzouma early on Monday morning and around Cap Farina to the pretty town of Sidi Bau Said and into the oldest and probably the smallest marina in Tunisia. It’s well known for accommodating visiting yachts no matter how full they are. Steve hailed them and they directed us into the narrowest possible space, deep in the heart of the marina. They did a good job of guiding us in and helping to tie-up. Getting out, I feared, may be a challenge.

We roamed the town the next day, mingling with hundreds of tourists belched out of the huge cruise ship docked in Tunis, a busy modern metropolis. Provisioning in a relatively well-stocked supermarket was interesting, finding red hot pepper dip, saffron and eucalyptus, among other treats.

Steve went looking for a weather forecast at the marina office. “Great forecast, he said. “Pity it’s yesterday’s!” He asked the surly port captain for an updated one. “In an hour,” he said gruffly. We went back in an hour and the next day but the old one was still posted. Fortunately, we weren’t relying solely on his forecast and got an update from a UK weather site (weatheronline.com) on the Blackberry.

We skillfully manouvered out of the marina on Wednesday morning in light winds and with a very small weather window, bound for the anchorage at L’Eau Chaud. We hoped to get close to the lee of the land and duck into the anchorage before it blew to a full gale but the weather was building fast. Four miles shy of the anchorage all hell broke loose. Steve turned to Ian in disbelief and said, “This is a lot of wind – I’ve never seen anything like this before. The short fetch waves were manageable but the gusting wind was lifting sheets of spray into the air. Ian dropped the sails. We motored east on bare poles and took one hour to move half a mile towards shore as gusts blew down the mountainside. I watched our painful progress from the dry cabin as Ian and Steve were pelted with spume. In hindsight we should have left a triple reef in the main to get some additional forward motion, but as usual hindsight is a wonderful thing. Later, we watched the wind continue to play with the water right inside the anchorage. We sat out the blow as it continued into the next day. Despite good protection in the anchorage, it was difficult to light the BBQ.

When the wind finally died, we headed past Raz El Fartass (not a spelling mistake, I swear) to the anchorage before Cap Bon. The wind was steady until the last 5 miles when it increased to 20 knots on the nose. The anchorage turned out to be quite desolate with a Mars-like landscape and only mountain goats for company. We stayed there the next day and even when the wind lessened, we could hear it still blowing hard on the other side of the cape.

We sailed to the fishing town of Kaliba – halfway between Cap Bon and Hammamet. We docked around lunchtime but the shared visitor/fishing dock was crowded with visiting yachts and local fishing boats. We tied up in the dive boat’s spot but would have to move when he came back so we decided to make a run for Hammamet, our final destination, 30 miles away. Ian was on deck when a Tunisian Navy boat hailed us. They asked the name of the vessel, the number of people on board, their nationality, and our destination, and all in English. Tunisian officials keep track of their cruising guests in a non-intrusive and friendly manner. They know your itinerary and call it ahead to the relevant ports. I think a Canadian boat is a bit of a novelty in these waters.

We arrived at Marina Yasmine Hammamet just after dark and tied up at the visitor’s dock to hand in our paperwork. After an hour, the marinara in his dinghy gestured for us to follow him down the channel to our berth, although in the dark it was difficult to see which berth he was pointing at. Our new German neighbour Oscar helped us in.

Marina Yasmine, aptly named with the smell of jasmine in the air, is one of the nicest and best run marinas in Tunisia. It’s a tourist area, filled with white holiday villas, shopping centers, restaurants, young boys selling bunches of jasmine, and the usual excursions including life-like pirate ships filled with bopping sun-baked tourists. We caught up with Mick and Jo, an English couple with whom we’ve only chatted with through e-mail, who winter in Yasmine on their boat. We bumped into Canadians Denise and Robert from Quebec on Eccentricity – we first met 2 years ago in Smir Morocco when they were deciding where to leave their boat. Ironically enough, they were leaving their boat in Yasmine and flying home – just like us.

Two days later we motored over to the Rodriguez Shipyard slip to haul out. Steve had to back the boat in and that was an exercise in itself. They lifted Whitestar out and placed her on the hard. That night the wind rose and sent vibrations down the mast making it seem like the boat was moving and was going to tip over. The next day, shipyard staff assured me it would not topple.

Decommissioning work began with bleaching of water tanks, stowing sails and lines, touching up teak work, flushing the salt water cooling system, and wrapping Whitestar in her new tarp. All went well except for the bilge cleanout. I was warned that what comes out may not be water and ended up splattered with spots as I stood below the bilge drain holding a bucket. Steve owes me a new outfit.

It wasn’t all hard work. We rented a car and drove through the countryside to the town of El Jem where the second largest coliseum (after Rome) still stands. As we travelled south towards the Sahara, where 45 degree temperatures are the norm, we drove past hydro poles topped with huge stork nests. Almost all were inhabited by one or two offspring waiting to be fed. Although a major world historic site, there is very little signage. Friendly locals point you in the right direction as you navigate your way through tiny back streets. After immersing ourselves in the historic walls and corridors of the 3^rd century Coliseum, we sat on a terrace and enjoyed a lamb and vegetable couscous lunch and watched the world go by.

Another day, we took a break from working on the boat and visited the Domain Atlas winery to sample their award-winning wines and enjoy a typical Tunisian lunch on a vine-draped terrace. Tunisian cuisine embraces North African, oriental and Mediterranean influences and their wines are still made in the old French tradition. After lunch, Steve selected 2 dozen bottles of their finest to leave on the boat for the next sailing trip.

Some of the sights in Tunisia would make you think you’ve had too much sun: the solemn funeral walk of men carrying a shrouded loved-one on their shoulders through the streets; the beauty of the flowers that adorn a bride as she and her womenfolk parade around; the collared pet goat following three little girls along the road; the impressive pirate ships ferrying the tourists around the Gulf of Hammamet; and the camel resting in front of the ancient Coliseum in El Jem. Through the mirage, you see how lucky you are to sail and experience life in this unique country.

And so ends our journey for this year. Until next time!

A light south breeze and the motor started us off on Thursday morning bound for the island of Sardinia. The second largest in the med (after Sicily), this mountainous Italian island sits 7 miles south of French Corsica and 110 miles from Italy. The RTTY forecast from Hamburg was calling for the wind to provide great sailing but to be followed by a steady North West 4 to 5 Beaufort growing to 7 on Saturday by noon. Our 40-hour sail would take us in to Northern Sardinia around 1 am on Saturday morning. If the wind increased earlier than forecasted, we would alter course 25 miles south to the protected harbour of Alghero on the West coast. On Friday afternoon, we listened to gale warnings in 4 languages and sailed around the numerous thunder cells that lit up the radar screen. Steve decided to turn on the motor to charge the batteries but no start. A comment I made earlier, “You wouldn’t want to be bobbing along with no motor with this system building,” suddenly came back to haunt us. After a tense 20 minutes where Steve jump-wired across the starter terminals to remedy a finicky starter, Mr. Diesel Sir roared back into life.

We picked up the odd hitchhiker on the way – a fat grey moth, a bumblebee and a delicate female sparrow. She joined us 35 miles from shore and was clearly exhausted as she clung to the gib sheet. After a few minutes of blowing in the wind, she landed on the lifelines and with one eye on me and the other down the hatch, she took off below. When I checked later, she was sitting on the ledge under a porthole in the forward cabin.

Just before midnight on Friday, we reached the infamous Fornelli Passage separating the north of the island and the former penal colony, Isola Asinara. This shallow passage is impassable if the wind has blown east or west for 2 days previous. Steve lined up with the range light and we proceeded in under driving rain and inky blackness. The second range light to indicate where you turn was obviously burnt out but our navigational charts were clearly marked. We continued on instruments only; there’s nothing like putting your faith in your depth sounder and nav system when all else fails. The 2-knot current added to the fun by slewing us sideways through the passage along our course line. One hour later we steered around the breakwater and into the Port of Stintino. We tied up bow and stern beside a tourist cat. We knew it wouldn’t be used for the next few days – unless filled with German thrill seekers. Happy hour commenced at 2 am and we retired thankful to be in before the gale.

I woke to the wind roaring at 7:30 am and it continued to blow from the north for three days. In the meantime we explored the little town of Stintino to the sound of the church bells ringing on the hour and a rendition of Ave Maria at 6 pm every evening. We found the only internet café and a scrumptious pastry shop. We met Stig and Lily, a Swedish couple who are preparing their boat, Sudden Light, for a sail to South America. Communicating with the locals was interesting and even funny. I asked the butcher for 4 kilos of sausage instead of a quarter kilo. I realized my mistake when everybody in the shop burst out laughing and made gestures to show how much I had asked for. Steve was able to make himself understood to Elio the mechanic with the bad back, using Spanish to explain the starter problem. Elio’s face fell, understandably, when he realized the engine was below the floorboards. He replaced the bearings and brushes and we were ready to go.

On Thursday morning early we pulled out of Stintino and into the Golfo Dell Asinara in light winds. About 5 miles out the primary fuel filter plugged and the engine died. Steve changed the filter and tried the starter motor. Nothing. Back we sailed into the harbour and tacked just before the candy striped pinnacle sitting on top of a shallow band of rock. The wind died and suddenly we were wedged on the rock. The Mason Boat Owner’s Manual states, The design we have chosen is strong and well protected and should the boat go aground (which is inevitable) it should be much easier to unstick her. Our previous grounding experience was with sand and I expected rock to be unforgiving but with no wind and no waves, we only managed to knock a few more barnacles off our keel before help arrived. Two marina guys in dinghies came to our rescue and led us into the dock.

Back came Elio the mechanic and he discovered the starter housing had cracked. He pulled it out to send to a welder. We asked about ordering a new starter as a back up. Between Steve, Elio and Claudia from the marina office who spoke perfect English, they tracked down a dealer in Italy. Of course, the dealer had to import it from the US at twice the cost of home – the price of keeping your boat in the med, I suppose.

We departed Porto Stintino on Sunday morning with plans for Claudia and Elio to courier the starter to Marina Del Sole in Cagliari when it arrived a week later. The wind in the Golfo Dell Asinara was favourable giving us a beam reach all the way to Cabo Testa just before the Bonifacio Strait. With Corsica in view, we anchored early evening beside one other boat in a nice sandy cove on the southeast side of the isthmus, under the timed glome of the lighthouse. 

The next day we sailed into the strait and 15 miles later dropped anchor in front of a huge Maltese sailboat beside white sand dunes in Porto Liscia. Steve spotted a beach bar and soon we were planing in the dinghy towards the bar. As he tested the motor’s speed, his hat flew off and into the water. A quick circle to pick up the hat which contained his beer money and we were on our way to the beach. The barman graciously accepted the soggy note. Sitting in the cockpit later that evening, we were entertained by 6 other boats coming in to anchor. This anchorage is a challenge as the depth shallows unexpectedly (50 to 35 to 25 to 9’ within 20’), causing one sailboat to throw the throttle into hard reverse on his way in. The most entertaining boat was French with seven men on board and it was a committee decision on where and how to anchor. “Don’t let them see you watching,” Steve said. But after an hour of them circling, dropping anchor, pulling it up again, arm gestures back and forth, it was difficult not to watch and wonder. The other sailboats were glued to their antics too. They finally did the French thing – dropped anchor between ours and a British boat, knowing we had the sweet spot and determined to get as close as possible. I wanted to put out all our bumpers in case they bumped in the night but Steve thought it would be rude!

We sailed out of Port Liscia the following afternoon and through a school of windsurfers who played chicken with Whitestar as they crisscrossed her bow. A perfect Sunday sail past the Maddalena islands for which most are protected as a marine reserve allowing no anchoring, no diving, no fishing, no motoring, no nothing; a pleasant group of red granite islands surrounded by a sparkling aquamarine sea. It was a busy Sunday with ferries taxiing back and forth from the islands. “Don’t make eye contact,” said Steve even though we had the right of way as a boat under sail. It’s a bit difficult as a monster ferry bears down on you at five times your speed. It reminded me of sailing in New York Harbour as we held our course through the path of 5 large ferries. The clay coloured villages blended into the island’s shoreline and the delph blue sky and white puffball clouds were begging to be painted. As the sun slowly sank into the sea we pulled into the anchorage in Golfo Di Cugnana. This large bay was home for the next day as we relaxed in the sunshine and caught up on small chores.

Steve had heard that the Nato naval base on Isola Travolara was decommissioned and we headed out to anchor in the natural harbour previously occupied by the base. As we approached we had difficulty defining the harbour entrance – it certainly did not match our paper and electronic charts. On closer inspection we could see a crane filling in the entrance. Then we heard the roar of the coastguard’s boat heading directly to our position. We continued around the island staying away from the off-limits marine reserve while under the watchful eye of the coastguard boat that bobbed nearby. A low level close pass by the coastguard helicopter and the remaining military parapanelia on the island ‘nature reserve’ indicated it was not open to the public. We continued on and anchored in the tranquil Capo Cavallo with 2 other boats and were joined later by 4 more. Just before dusk the coastguard helicopter flew overhead – probably checking to make sure we were all where we should be for the evening.

On Friday morning we headed out of Capo Cavallo and down the east coast to Arbatax. We planned to stay 2 days but news of another gale encouraged us to hunker down and wait it out. Steve and John from Solstice stood on the dock and watched lenticular clouds building with a promise for a very rough blow the next day. John and Shirley sailed from California 4 years ago and are heading back to the U.S. next year to work. The small town of Arbatax was definitely off the tourist map and fishermen and shepherds account for most of the population. It offered an opportunity to relax for a few days before heading south along the east coast towards Cagliari to pick up a fresh crewmember, Ian.

The favourable current and breeze kept us close-hauled on the way south to Cabo Carbonara on Tuesday morning. This part of the coast is quite desolate and offers few protected anchorages or even marinas along the way. Around 10:30 a military boat approached with a man on the bow holdings his arms in a crossed fashion. We pulled in the gib as they came alongside. He spoke in Italian, switching to French when he saw our confusion. “You must go north,” he said. “We’re going south to Cagliari,” said Steve. They asked that we monitor VHF Channel 10. A military officer came on the radio and advised us to take a course of 80 degrees (instead of our course of 160 degrees) for 25 miles before turning south. Steve advised him that this would cause a safety concern due to a delay in our arrival time and pending unfavourable wind conditions. Steve asked why we had to detour from our course and was told they were holding a military exercise in the immediate area. He then asked how long the exercise would take. After a few minutes, the officer came back on the radio and asked us to move 3 miles north and hold until noon when the exercise would end. We bobbed around (heading north) enjoying the sunshine and I decided to make lunch early while we were waiting. While I was below, 2 warning explosions were set off to mark the range of the exercise. As I came on deck I saw the puffball dissipate and a silver missile launching out of the shoreline and disappearing over the sea and out of sight. It was followed shortly after by a rumble somewhere over the horizon to the east of us. Steve wondered if Sardinia had just declared independence. A few minutes later the radio buzzed and we were thanked for cooperating and could resume on our course. Another exciting moment for the crew of Whitestar.

A nice southeast breeze boosted Whitestar to 7.5 knots for the remainder of the sail and we arrived in fading light to the anchorage. On entering shallow water, we were surprised by 2 rocks awash in 50’ of water, not shown on our Navtronics chart but marked on our Imray chart. Some anchorages are shown in great detail on the Navtronics system, others have none. It shook our confidence in Navtronics and served as a lesson to check both nav systems in future. During the day a gale warning had been issued over the radio and by midnight we were getting very severe gusts in the anchorage and the other 5 boats were also awake and checking their anchors.

The wind lessened the next morning – just enough to encourage some beach-goers to take in the delights of the Tiki beach bar. We were sitting on deck for Happy Hour and heard a cheer go up on the shore. Some young people were waving a red towel with Canada emblazoned on it. I grabbed our air horn and shot off a few blows in recognition of kindred spirits. There’s a shortage of Canadians here in the Med – sailors and tourists alike – and it’s heartening to see the flag flying in the most out of the way places.

On Thursday we pulled out of Capo Carbonara in 10 to 15 on the nose and rounded the cape in very lumpy seas. The winds escalated to 25 to 30 and Steve convinced me we were not going backwards. It was slow going – you know, bite your teeth-kinda-slow-going that drives you to drink, but it’s only 9 am. We soon tired of bucking and rolling and pulled into the most expensive marina on the trip so far (70 euro), the ‘don’t do it unless absolutely necessary like bad weather’ marina of Villasimius. We were able to tie up North American style, as it wasn’t full – surprise!

The conditions were conducive to making a run for Cagliari the following day and headed across the Golfo de Teulada. We pulled into the Marina Del Sol and docked with the assistance of a dinghy in a very tight space. Our new starter motor was a welcome sight – sitting on the table in the marina bar. Steve was happy!

At 7pm there was a sharp knock on the bow. “Permission to board,” asked Ian as he hoisted up his army backpack laden with surprises (peanut butter, new propane regulator, blue tooth headphones, grease gun, and rum). After an hour enjoying the sunset, the men headed up to the marina bar to catch up on Ian’s 7 months in Afghanistan.

Provisioning included the delights of Sardinia – bread, pastries and cheese, and the usual amount of local wine and beer – we were heading to a ‘dry’ country after all. Our American Tourister cart was buckling under the weight walking back from the store. In the early afternoon we paid a visit to the coastguard office and were greeted by men in white (there’s a lot to be said for men in uniform, especially white) where we filed for our departure from the EU paperwork. This is especially important for foreign vessels, as you need a record of departure to avoid passport control problems on re-entry to the EU. “This is the first time we’ve been asked for this,” said the handsome officer in white. An hour later we pulled out of the marina and off to Tunisia.

Sardinia, a delightful old-fashioned island, not on the tourist map for many North Americans, but definitely worth discovering.

May 8 to May 12, 2010

Menorca has an abundance of prehistoric remains – more than anywhere in the whole Mediterranean, with many Neolithic caves set into the cliffs, clearly visible as you sail by. The north coast of this island sits directly in the path of the northwest tramontana or mestral gales, which makes it very dangerous when this wind is blowing. We sailed the short hop in a light south breeze under sunny skies and into Cala Santa Galdana on the south shore in the early afternoon.

This cala sits amid steep cliffs and a holiday resort dominates the beachfront. The clear turquoise water was not tempting any of the beach goers, probably due to the infestation of thousands of jellyfish. We dinghied in and toured the resort and later were joined in the anchorage by another boat with kids and even granny on board.

Two days later we left Cala Santa Galdana and headed eastward with wind on the nose and a large swell. The unusual black and white stripped lighthouse on the flat Isla Del Aire could be seen for miles and we anchored beside the deserted island famous for it’s bunnies and tomato-eating black lizards. Steve took advantage of the pleasant afternoon sunshine to dismantle a seized winch on deck and re-grease it. Shortly into the job I noticed he still had his good shorts on and I managed to wiggle them off him before they ended up grease-spotted like the rest of his boat clothes.

On Monday we sailed to Puerto De Addaya, a lagoon set deep in a sheltered cove and protected by a line of small islands. A dozen boats sat on moorings but it soon became obvious that most had been left there for the winter. We pulled into the marina and met Nigel, an English chap who runs a tour boat. He gave us a ride up the hill to the chandlery to find a shackle for the boom. We also treated Whitestar to new blue and white bumpers that are so pretty I just want to keep them for show. Three days were spent provisioning, walking around the beautiful Punta de la Torre and meeting fellow sailors like Wolfgang on Goromaro, a former Flying Dutchmen racer who parked his 70’ ferro-cement boat in Addaya. He was painting his 200 ft chain on deck rather than pay 2,500 euro for a new one. I guess we’re lucky we bought one on sale in Florida for $300 or we’d be bringing it in a suitcase. The forecast for the next two days was perfect for our 180-mile sail to Sardinia. 

The Islas Baleares are truly beautiful. Deserted calas, exquisitely beautiful bays and miles of spectacular rugged coastline draped with honeysuckle, lavender and pine trees that titillate your senses, even miles offshore. Islands not to be missed when sailing the Mediterranean.

Major Mallorca

On Sunday morning the forecast was perfect for the sail to Mallorca, the largest of the Baleares islands. We decided to sail the spectacular rugged north coast as most favour the touristy south shore. It was a lively sail with the wind on the nose as the predicted SW wind never materialized. Our intended anchorage was beside Isla Dragonera, which sits at the southwest tip of Mallorca. Normally an imposing sight, dusk made the island as foreboding as it’s name. To top it off, the sound of the wind blowing down it’s steep mountainside sounded rather menacing. We turned into Puerto de Andraitx instead. The marina is one of the oldest on the island and is surrounded by steep cliffs. We dropped anchor amid a field of mooring balls.

The next morning, under a beautiful blue sky we turned into the wind and beat north along the unpopulated mountainous coast. The mountains are so steep here that you occasionally see a tunnel for the train to pass through. It was a lumpy sail in an uncomfortable sea and the weather was predicting a big northwest blow for the next 2 days so we headed to the harbour of Soller, a beautiful bay and harbour of refuge that sits among the mountains.

Our favourite Caribbean sailing author, Van Sant, says you should never just drop anchor and leave it – you should spend time on the process to ensure you are well set. We practiced anchor ballet – dropped the anchor and reset it when it dragged on reverse, dinghied out and took a look at it below. When we were satisfied, we sat admiring the brilliant white villas sitting in the side of the mountain and listened to the tourist train choo choo it’s way around the bay. At happy hour we joined the rest of the tourist population strolling around enjoying the early evening sunshine, found an Irish pub and later a nice restaurant for dinner.

The town looked different the next morning as the mountains were shrouded in heavy grey rain clouds. Meteo France reported ‘Balearics N/E 3 to 5 increasing to 6/7, locally 8 in the afternoon becoming NW 5 to 7 overnight. Strong gusts, sea becoming agitated and strong, thunderstorms and rain.’ We watched fishing boats come in one after another and a small dinghy speed out from the marina to the mouth of the harbour where giant waves were breaking, to escort a sailboat in.

The blow was yet to come. Around 9 pm, the wind turned from a howl to a menacing roar. It might be the mountain effect but Steve guessed it was blowing 7/8 in gusts. We watched as the wind picked water up and spumed it across the rolling waves towards us. The boat was cresting over 3 ft swells – and all this inside the harbour. My feeling of dread increased as I watched so I went below. Shortly after we heard a huge bang from the bow, Steve checked and the anchor snubber – a one-inch line – had blown. It was too lively to put on another so a sleepless night for both of us. The boats tied to the docks were also pitching and rolling and our neighbour’s dinghy and motor careened around upside down in the water. Why do little noises turn into very loud clinks, clunks and bangs in the night? It is especially frustrating when you can’t find the source. I got out of bed a few times to rearrange cups, plastic glasses, an onion, the ball inside an aerosol can, creaking closet doors and the dreaded pickle jar. When one particularly large swell seemed to send everything to the other side, I gave up.

We moved 360 degrees around the anchor a few times during the night and I was relieved we didn’t use the town’s mooring lines – they were too close to each other when we checked them previously. The blow lessened slightly the next morning and we dinghied over to the dock. I must have my sea legs as I almost fell over when I stood on land. There was a lot of debris in the water and branches and leaves littering the town. It was very unseasonable weather according to the Chandlery clerk. We did the touristy thing again and took the train through the orange groves to the town of Soller about 3 kms away. As we’re starting to experience, the weather in the Med is very changeable – almost hour-by-hour. One sailor told us to add a wind speed of Beaufort 2 to the forecast and you won’t go wrong.

We left Soller in light winds from the north, then west and filled to 30 knots with a 4’ swell. It was very lumpy and at times the sails were wing-on-wing … reminding me of a butterfly in flight. Suddenly a loud snap, the boom went swinging violently sideways. “Suffering sucatage, what the goodness gracious was that?” yelled Steve. A shackle eye on the boom had snapped clean off. I pulled in the gib while he positioned us to drop the main sail. We pulled into Cala De San Vicente and anchored in a large cove with a sandy beach and hotels, in order to rig a temporary attachment for the boom and make some lunch. We carried on around the rugged cliffs of Cabo de Fermentor and were riding huge long swells into the Bahia de Alcudia.

The first available anchorage, the Cala de Engossaubas was paradise – pine forests set into cliffs on three sides – very northern Ontario like. We dropped anchor to the bleating of mountain goats. Once again, we were the only boat in the Cala. Happy hour was spent watching the sun dip below the cliffs and the goats jumping from rock to rock.

The forecast was for settled weather for the next few days so we decided to stay and enjoy our surroundings for another day. I did a monster load of laundry, thank goodness for my wonder washer, and hung them on the lifelines in the sunshine to dry. Around the corner came a tourist boat and they were given an eyeful of Steve’s underwear flapping in the gentle breeze. We watched seaplanes from the nearby military base perform a forest fire exercise – dumping water into the bay. Another peaceful and relaxing day before heading to the last of the Balearic Islands, Menorca.

Ibiza and Formenta, The Pine Islands

On Tuesday morning, we departed Penon de Ifach on the Spanish coast and sailed in light winds towards Ibiza, the most westerly of the Balearic islands. It was a comfortable sail in glorious sunshine and I took the opportunity to do some laundry and hang it around the lifelines to dry. Steve commented that we looked like a Chinese launderette. Shortly after he was kept busy watching freighters on the radar as we passed through the shipping lanes. Early evening saw us anchoring near the beach of the privately owned Isla Espalmador with one other sailboat for company.

I was enjoying the beauty of the island and having my morning tea on deck when I felt I was being watched. Over my shoulder I spotted an Audouins Gull bobbing nearby, willing me with his beady eye to go below and bring back some bread, which of course I did. Within seconds he was competing for the bread with a shoal of small blue fish that must have been hiding under the shadow of the boat. While rare elsewhere the Audouins Gull is a common resident of these islands. Smaller than his herring gull cousin, he is certainly more attractive with his red beak with black tip and dark legs.

We upped anchor and motored in light wind, puttering around Cabo Lientrisca, through the passage between Isla Vedra and Vedranell and up the west coast of Ibiza. Though called islands, the two V’s are impressive rocks, only inhabited by birds. Our only companions along the way were a school of dolphins who rode the bow wave until they got bored, and a solitary fisherman in his traditional fishing boat.

Cala Badella is described as a deep and attractive cala protected by high wooded cliffs with cafes, bars and restaurants behind the beach. Maybe I was expecting a bigger anchorage but the small fishing boats moored near the beach and one other sailboat seemed to fill the space. I wasn’t comfortable with the rocky cliffs sitting 50 ft to starboard despite Steve saying we had enough swinging room. It just didn’t seem big enough for 43.11” Whitestar. My dad used to say that everything is bigger in North America – the roads, the houses, the bugs. It’s not until you come to Europe that you realize how you take space for granted. Europeans are used to fitting into smaller spaces, especially when anchoring. Off we headed to find a bigger cala or cove.

We filled the ‘large’ Cala Basa with Whitestar and had to reset the anchor as the first attempt dragged. There was a beautiful sandy beach with a few nudists. “Shocking!” said Steve.

Our next stop was the fishing harbour of San Antonio that claims to be the birthplace of Hannibal and sits in a beautiful deep bay. We tied up North American style in the Marina Club Nautico and went exploring the town, the chandlery and supermarkets. We also stopped into a ferreteria or hardware store and spent an entertaining hour explaining in Spanish what we needed to the very helpful clerk. “Yes, yes, I know what you mean,” he’d say each time. Then laugh and say, “but no, I don’t have it.” We did manage to get a few things on the list and plenty of advice as to where to get the rest.

We read about these islands being full to capacity for sailors and many boats being turned away due to overcrowding. But we were ahead of the tourist season when it is difficult to find uncrowded anchorages and harbours and not be disturbed by speedboats, jet skiers and noisy holidaymakers on shore. The only downside is some services are limited until the busy season starts. On Friday morning we motored over to the public fuel dock to fill up on diesel. We waited for 20 minutes after opening time, and then Steve radioed the port authority. “It’s not open today – come back on Saturday,” someone said in Spanish. “I called you yesterday and you said it was open today,” said Steve, also in Spanish. “No, manana (which is a typical ‘come back tomorrow and tomorrow’ expression you hear in most Spanish speaking countries.) “But your sign says it’s open today,” insisted Steve. “No, manana,” he replied again. We prepared to cast off and leave the port, as fuel was not urgent when I noticed a young man walking towards us. He asked how much we needed and proceeded to open the pump. A little patience and good humour go a long way!

We sailed out of port San Antonio and with the wind on the nose and decided early on to call it a day. We pulled in to the beautiful Cala Binirras beside Pureto de San Miguel. At the head of the Cala is a beautiful white beach with bars and restaurants. After our chores (scraping the dreaded worm coral off the boat’s waterline) we dinghed over to the beach for garlic prawns and beer.

Later sitting on deck watching the sun go down and listening to the naked hippies on the beach playing Indian drums, I glanced at the imposing pinnacle of Isote Bernat which sits at the entrance to the Cala and saw Queen Victoria. The guidebook says the rock has a remarkable likeness to the old Queen sitting on her throne and in the failing light it was uncanny.

On the morning of the 17th, our weather window appeared and we motored out of the port of Almerimar at first light. Whitestar was sluggish under motor; only reaching 3.5 knots at maximum speed. We knew immediately it was a barnacle-laden prop that was slowing us down. Others complained of the problem when wintering their boat in the med. This was the first time we left her in the water and with the two arms-length list of chores to do before we left, believe me, barnacles were the last things on our mind.

The wind was light but on the nose all day, which didn’t help our progress as we rounded the Cabo de Gata. When we pulled into Puerto Genoves at dusk the anchorage was rough with a northeast swell so rather than suffer a rocky sleep, we dropped anchor around the corner in front of the small town of San Jose. The next day, the sun shone on the sparsely populated rugged mountain coastline, aptly named Costa Blanca or white coast because of the colour of the rock in the sunshine. We enjoyed a delightful downwind sail until dusk. Our original destination, the old Roman port of Aguilas was disappointingly small for Whitestar, so we sailed another 12 miles to shelter in the wind shadow of the impressive Mt. Cope.

We set out the next morning under a light south wind and made good time. We passed the natural harbour of Cartagena, home to the Spanish navy where they were busy conducting exercises. I wondered about the ominous black vessel ahead until Steve confirmed it was a submarine. It skulked across our bow at slow speed and was joined shortly by a gunboat. Steve turned on the radar to see what a submarine looked like and to no surprise; it showed a scattered image or multiple targets on the screen. The sub descended leaving the gunboat circling us, probably checking out Steve’s new frequency modulated broadband radar.

We carried on around Cabo de Palos where the winds picked up and we were forced to reduce sail and continue to our destination of Mar Menor. This incredible inland sea is 12 miles long and 6 miles wide and is separated from the sea by a narrow sand bar overpopulated by tourist resorts. It was to be our place of refuge from the north blow expected for the next two days. The only charted entrance is through the swing bridge at Puerto de Tomas Maestre, halfway along the sand bar. We pulled in the basin before the bridge and realized our two navigation systems were showing a totally different port plan to what was there. There was a mast in sight behind a huge steel break wall and as we rounded the corner to check out the anchorage, a booming voice welcomed us to the biggest incomplete marina I’ve ever seen. “The bridge is closed at the moment and we don’t know when it will open again,” said Arnold, a stately Liverpudlian gentleman. We didn’t mind though, as it was a well-protected anchorage inside the marina and we had enough work to do while waiting out the blow.

The next day, Steve prepared the dingy, assembled the outboard motor from my suitcase, jumped in, yelled ‘yeehaw’ and had the dingy planing around the empty marina. Round and round he went until Arnold lifted his head out of Peleus and accepted the offer of a ‘happy hour’ drink later that evening. We checked the prop through our glass bottomed bucket and were amazed and horrified at the barnacle, coral worm and sponge community residing there. Cleaning the prop suddenly went from an “oh I’ll just scrape them off with my bbq scraper duct-taped to a pole,” to a complete engineering design exercise.

He had me scrambling around digging out long johns, wool socks and a wetsuit, as he prepared to enter the water. Not quite warm enough to swim, the water was about 15 degrees. I couldn’t resist taking a photo when he was ready and the sight of him donning my garden/anchor gloves nearly sent me over the edge. This was serious business though. Steve’s brilliant plan, according to Arnold, had never been thought of before and in case you’re interested, is as follows:

1. Test the effect of the acid on a brass key (as prop is brass) and a barnacle encrusted zinc.
2. Fill a freezer size ziplock bag with Auga Fuerte (HCI), seal and place inside a giant ziplock (XXL size).
3. Enter the water with snorkel and mask (and garden gloves).
4. Wrap the prop in the giant ziplock and tie with a rubber band (tire tube) around prop shaft.
5. Use the saltwater suction pump hose to suck out water from giant ziplock and unzip acid filled ziplock while still inside the giant ziplock.
6. Sit on deck in the sunshine with a beer and keep fingers crossed that it works. Leave overnight for maximum impact.

When Steve was dry, we picked up Arnold and dinghied into town to do some shopping (fresh vegetables, ice and more agua fuerte) and try out the local beer and tapas. The next day Steve went in the water, pulled away the giant ziplock and the prop was 70% clean. He repeated the process but with full strength agua fuerte and had to cut a little hole in the bag to let the foaming hydrogen bubbles out. We ended up with a bit of residual barnacles on the inner prop but the blades and shaft were shining. I felt bad about the elimination of the marine community on our prop but Steve’s Six Steps To A Clean Prop prevented a 1,000 euro haul-out and a delay.

On Sunday morning we lifted anchor to the bugle serenade Arnold played for us and departed. Within 30 seconds, I had to throw down the anchor as the engine overheated on start-up. When Steve checked, the alternator belt had broken. An hour later it was replaced and we were back on course for Isla Tabarca. This small island was once an old pirate base and now the area surrounding it is a marine reserve. The usual Sunday sailors and motor boaters were out enjoying the sunshine and when they left, we reset the anchor closer to the beach. Happy hour was spent watching the sun go down while savouring the island’s beauty and tranquility.

Early morning brought an uncomfortable swell to the anchorage leaving no choice but to pull anchor and set sail. This part of the Spanish coast is bursting with tourist hotels and resorts but it’s interesting to see only a handful of rooms lit up in each building at night, as we sailed along the coast. We sailed on by Alicante and Benidorm to the spectacular Penon de Ifach, a huge vertical rock on it’s own peninsula. As we approached, the light south wind turned into a howl as it lifted over the mighty mountain that sheltered us. This was also our lift off point from Spain to the islands of the Baleares the next day.

“You’ve got 6 kilos for clothes,” said Steve, “and that includes your make-up bag.” Our weight allowance along with an additional 13kgs each purchased under Air Transat’s Option Plus plan meant we could take the new dingy outboard motor and radar unit. I skimmed through my intended wardrobe and threw most of them into the ‘can’t bring this time’ pile. Even my make-up bag was given the once over and most of the contents removed… reluctantly.

The outboard motor Steve wanted wasn’t available in Spain where Whitestar was docked. He bought a 2 stroke 9.9 modified to a 15 hp. It was broken into 3 parts to pack (fuel tank, lower prop unit and upper bracket). The radar fit into a bag of its own. My clothes were used to cushion it.

We still had to remove some things from our bags, as the Air Transat scales did not align with ours. The stone–faced rep demanded we take some items out and her “it’s more than my job’s worth” attitude was not endearing as I stuffed coils of red, white and black wire into my handbag. As Steve predicted, Option Plus Plan came through for us as we had priority boarding, special white headrests, champagne, an upgraded meal and wine and drinks galore, and all while sitting in the pleb class.

Malaga airport is the most disorganized airport we have experienced; even our plane crew couldn’t find their baggage. Two hundred and fifty fellow passengers wandered around like stunned bunnies looking for the carousel with our bags. Another hour of up two floors, down one, to find the car rental place only to hear that our pre-booked Avis car was not available. A dirty Opal Astra pulled into the return car spot, the rep looked at us, we looked at him and both said “okay.” You couldn’t fit in anything bigger than a ham sandwich after our bags filled every inch of space.

This part of the Spanish coast has received three years of rain in the last three months. Many roads had been washed away and to add insult to injury, the African tiger mosquito came to visit the moisture-laden coastline. The good thing is, they’re so big you can feel them land on you.

The port of Almerimar sits among the white plastic sheeted greenhouses where most of Europe’s winter vegetables are grown. It’s an interesting community made up mostly of Brits and Irish who own apartments here to escape the cold and damp of home. A lot of live-aboards have sailed or RV’d their way into this port, bought apartments or homes in the hills, and never left. Some have done the deed and sold their boats and RV’s, never to wander again. This area was originally built as a tourist haven but the impact of the economic crisis is clearly seen in the empty ‘for sale’ apartment blocks.

Whitestar looked in good shape when we arrived at Almerimar Marina. One spring line had blown in the high winds the month previous but the back-up line held it nicely. After a quick check and depositing our many bags, we headed to McGowan’s Irish Pub for a Magners and a Guinness. Tired, but happy!

While the unfavourable east wind blew constantly, Whitestar was outfitted and cleaned as we worked from morning to night getting her ready to sail. Some of the work carried out while we were away included new running rigging, an engine overhaul, an acid clean on the fresh water coolant system, a new aft anchor chock and anchor for med mooring installed, a new bow ladder made and a new canvas tarp to adorn the boat when not in use. Steve installed a new broadband extra sensitive radar and chart plotter display. It’s his new toy. He says it’s so good it can detect which marina slips are empty. He tightened the oil pan gasket, changed the oil, replaced a faulty bilge switch, changed the cranking battery and raw water pump bearings and seals, installed a new Jabsco head, a new 45 lb Manson bow anchor, a new exchanger zinc and organized the installation of a new outboard motor lifting davit. We bent the sails (put on the main and gib), polished the stainless of which there’s a lot, and replaced cabin light bulbs with LED low voltage bulbs. We waited for a calm day for Steve to climb the mast to replace burnt out bulbs in the navigation lights and wash down the mast. I manned the winch. He was particularly nice to me as I winched him up and down – maybe he was wondering if I’d leave him hanging…

Provisioning took on an international flavour as we stocked Spanish wine and beer, Dominican rum, English gin, Irish cider and food, of course.

At the end of each day, we’d walk over to McGowan’s pub for dinner and a well-deserved drink… or two. We slept soundly with aches in muscles that hadn’t been used in a long time. My hands grew to three times their size from cleaning and polishing but Steve seems to like them like that…

Our Belgian neighbours Ronald and Erna on Muriel II were very helpful suggesting Spanish weather sources and anchorages. Ronald even downloaded the installation program for the new broadband radar. A send-off bottle of Spanish wine was particularly appreciated. Cruisers are a special breed – sailors who are planners, diesel mechanics, computer/electronic experts, meticulous navigators, always glad to lend a hand, and they can be found in every corner of the world… if you look.

“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.

We landed in Lisbon tired, happy and terribly excited. We were rejoining our Mason 43, Whitestar, in Nazare on the west coast of Portugal, after shore leave in Madagascar. It had been over a year since we sailed her from the Great Lakes to the Cayman Islands, Bermuda, the Azores, finally resting her in Nazare. We were anxious to see how she fared while we were away and to be sailing her again.

The town of Nazare gets its name from the gift of a statue of the Virgin Mary, brought from Nazareth by a monk in the 4th century. It’s a popular spot with Portuguese tourists in the summertime. As you wander through the winding back alleyways, your nose is titillated by the smell of traditional seafood delights wafting from the doorways of the many family-owned restaurants. Everywhere you turn, your eyes are treated to the sight of local women in centuries old dress; headscarves and beautifully embroidered aprons over layer-upon-layer of vibrantly coloured flannel skirts. And as for your taste buds, your most difficult decision is whether to pick the house recommended wine or a bottle of 2 Euro reserve (go with the house!).

Before the taxi pulled into the shipyard, I spotted Whitestar standing majestically amid tugboats, catamarans, fishing boats and other monohulls – a beautiful sight for sore eyes. Former cruisers, marina manager Mike and his wife Sally, certainly looked after her; charging batteries and overseeing work commissioned while we were away – making it a choice destination for cruisers looking for a safe spot to leave their boat. Whitestar received new canvas (sail bag, bimini, and dodger), her hull refinished and two fresh coats of red bottom coat. Jackie and Bill arrived 2 days ahead of us and did an amazing job of cleaning and getting her ready to sail. All that was left for us to do was bend the sails, commission the engine and load the electronic charts. Jackie and I went to the local grocery store for some last minute provisioning, buying local cheese, bread, fish and of course, wine. When our chores were done, we walked up the hill to a little restaurant for an early dinner and back to Whitestar for a nightcap and early night.

The next morning the pressure was on – once the dense fog lifted, the weather would be perfect for our exit from Nazare. Steve was on a mission. “We’re leaving as soon as they drop us in the water and we fuel up,” he said. What about the fog? I asked, looking into the murkiness. “That’s why we have radar,” came his reply. Shipyard staff positioned the lift in front of Whitestar and wrapped the straps around her hull, and all while Bill and I frantically filled the water tanks. Mr. Diesel Sir started perfectly – apart from blowing an empty bird nest out of the exhaust. We waved goodbye and Steve manouvered us out of the marina entrance using the radar. As we cut through the mirror-like water of the calm Atlantic, I could only see 10 ft ahead of the bow; only the hum of the motor and the silencing fog, for company. Later Steve explained, our port captain, strongly recommended a prompt departure in order to avoid the exit paperwork and the convoluted EU tax regulations. In fact, as far as the authorities were concerned, Whitestar was never there.

Jackie set a course for Ilha da Berlenga, the largest of the Berlengas archipelago that sits 7 miles from the headland of Cabo Carvoeiro. The islands are part of a marine biosphere reserve, abundant in endemic species of flora, fauna and sea bird nesting sites. The sun eventually burned the fog to a haze and we sailed towards the islands ahead. The afternoon was spent lounging in the sunshine, reading, checking charts and monitoring the sails in the light wind. Suddenly our peace was interrupted by an angry buzz. Steve recognized it was the engine high temperature alarm and reduced throttle. We encountered this problem once before coming into Bermuda with a broken seawater heat exchanger. We motored on at reduced speed.

The sun was setting when we reached Berlengas Grande, the biggest of the islands. Bill and I stood on the bow and looked in disbelief at the narrow channel that was to take us to the anchorage in front of the village. We gestured back to Steve to abort entry while eyeing the sharp edges of rock sitting underwater 10 ft on each side of Whitestar. He had the same idea and reversed out to scout out another anchorage. Although listed in the guide as a protected anchorage, it was obviously only for shallow draft and smaller boats. Darkness fell as we searched and sounded the depth in front of the Fort de Sao Joao Baptista, an ancient fortress built in 1502. Under the backdrop of the black granite mountain behind the fort, we dropped anchor in 50 ft of water and an unknown bottom.

We dragged anchor twice during the night, the first time we reset the anchor and the second decided unanimously to set sail. Steve took the helm and the rest of us promptly went back to our warm beds. “Lay-abouts!” I heard him mutter. It was an easy sail round the Cabo de Sines but the light winds and motor temperature problem slowed progress. Steve and Bill set about trying to find the problem. They checked the raw water impellor, the raw water intake filter, checked for an airlock in the fresh water side – vented air and reduced the engine temp by 10 degrees. They bled the fresh water radiator and added coolant before running the engine for 30 mins at 2,000 rpm. The alarm broke through the afternoon quiet, forcing us to once again reduce throttle.

We motored along at 3 knots in a very light breeze and rounded the impressive Cabo de Sao Vincente, the southwestern tip of the Portuguese coast. The lighthouse loom can be seen 60 kms away making it one of the most powerful in Europe. This notable sentinel stands on steep vertical cliffs and watches over the entrance to the Mediterranean.

The next two days continued to be slow going with light winds and flat seas. We saw no change until early evening on the 26^th. The wind shifted to the SE increasing to 15 knots on the nose, causing an alteration of course from our original destination of Tarifa. We pulled into the marina at the Spanish coastal town of Barbate and took the opportunity to catch-up on much needed rest. An early start the next morning after we checked the weather, and out we headed for the infamous windy town of Tarifa. The weatherman was calling for Beaufort 3, 4, 5, or 6 – take your pick.

We had done our homework on Tarifa; a popular windsurfer’s paradise and suicide capital of Europe, it enjoys an average year round wind speed of 45 kms an hour. The Atlantic Ocean meets the Mediterranean Sea here at the narrowest point of the Straits of Gibraltar and, on a clear day, you can see the Rif Mountains of Morocco. The weather was clear and we sailed under 3 reefs in winds of 20 to 25 knots along this wild coastline. We zigzagged our way as it gusted to 35 knots. Jackie wouldn’t let Bill take off his tether, not even to use the head! “Look at this boat perform,” Steve marveled, as I dug my fingernails into the teak. In the late afternoon we pulled into the lee of Tarifa and dropped anchor in one of the rolliest anchorages ever – we continued to sail on our anchor. Steve assured me that were the anchor to drag, we would drag out to sea rather than into the beach.

“Tarifa Traffic, Tarifa Traffic,” yelled the traffic controller into her radio, waking me from my sleep. We spent a rocky night with many interruptions from rolling paraphernalia (pickle jars, cups, etc.).  “What is your final destination? ”Are you carrying any dangerous cargo?” just some of the questions she asked. Steve was waiting for the VHF weather forecast but in the meantime we had to listen to the mandatory reporting of all commercial traffic through the Straits. Since it’s one of the busiest shipping lanes in the world, we were entertained with the comings and goings of freight captains and their cargo. It was obvious we were staying in the anchorage. The weatherman still couldn’t make up his mind, calling for Beaufort 5, 6 or 7, with gusts up to 8.

That afternoon, we watched kite-surfers crisscrossing Whitestar’s bow; at least someone was enjoying the wind. Bill and Steve spent an entertaining half an hour on deck with the wind in their hair, oohing and aahing at the Wind Wizard readings of Beaufort 7 and 8. Happy hour followed by a delicious dinner and the hope of an uninterrupted sleep.

The weather was only slightly better the next morning. If we were to wait for perfect sailing weather to go through the Straits, we would still be sitting there. After breakfast, we voted to make a run for our final destination, Gibraltar. We blew out of the anchorage and towards the Straits with a head-on wind of 3 to 4 on the nose. The threat of thunderstorms hung heavy and the ominous cloud build-up looked very menacing but at least they were behind us. Steve was snoozing below and I was reading about Gibraltar when I noticed a change in the boat’s performance. We were heeled over and flying along at 9.2 knots. Steve jumped up and checked the nav system, popped his head up the hatch and said, “Great speed, but we’re going to Africa.” We tacked, reefed in the main, steered back onto our former course, and resumed pounding against the current-enhanced waves.

It was tough going in 12 ft swells and winds on the nose. How many times can you look at the same scenery?” Bill asked. It seemed like we were going backwards. What should have taken 3 hours turned into a challenging 7 hour test of endurance. Later Bill said it was the toughest sail of his life and yet he couldn’t stop thinking about it. His comment gave Steve and I something to think about. As cruisers, we tend to become used to and take in stride situations like mechanical breakdowns, less than perfect weather, misinformation in guides, cultural barriers, language challenges – all part of a typical cruising lifestyle. It builds character – right?

The British territory of Gibraltar sits on a peninsula overlooking the Straits. The town is built around a monolithic limestone rock and is home to 30,000 Gibraltarians. The driving rain made visibility nearly impossible as we maneuvered around enormous freighters parked in the straits. It is one of the busiest ports of call in the Mediterranean. On approach to the entrance to Queensway Quay marina, a police boat hailed and asked where we were going. I think we looked a bit itinerant, wind-blown and bedraggled. We finally tied up at the dock; tired, wet, but happy, and ready to explore this tiny fascinating territory.

The intention that evening was to enjoy a relaxing dinner and reminisce about our trip but it soon turned into a singsong with the locals. We joined in brash renditions of British oldies and war songs and every request was sung with gusto. It’s times like this that my husband probably wonders why he married a woman that can’t sing as I belted out verse after verse, off-key. I guess I’ll hang my head in the morning.

We turned into tourists exploring the Rock tunnels and climbing to the nature reserve at the top of the mountain to see the home of the famous Barbary apes. Legend states that as long as the Barbary Macaques exist here, Gibraltar will remain under British rule. Every attempt is made to look after this unique troupe. They are fed daily and caught on a regular basis to monitor their health. Bill and Steve encouraged them to sit on their arms but I couldn’t ignore the “do not touch the animals” signs posted around. One tourist bore the marks of being too friendly – a bloody bite on his arm.

Browsing around Shepherd’s marine store was heaven for Steve and he happily purchased plumbing parts for the raw water-cooling system. Another happy moment when he found the Perkin’s engine dealer and purchased a new replacement thermostat. It might be a malfunctioning thermostat behind the engine high temperature.

We wandered through beautiful streets and sat in cafes listening to the locals speak their unique language; an eclectic mix of Andalusian Spanish and British English.

We quizzed other cruisers about their interpretation and experiences of the European Union regulation for foreign vessels (the EU charges VAT on the value of your boat when in Europe longer than 18 months). We heard a mixed bag of stories, from sailors who were never checked, to one whose boat was impounded until he came up with the money. It seems that French custom officials enforce the regulation whereas other countries don’t. Despite Gibraltar not being an EU member, we heard Spanish customs do not recognize a visit to Gibraltar as a way to reset the VAT 18 month clock. The overwhelming advice was to get right out of the EU.

Having reached our final destination, suddenly we had to change plans and look for somewhere else to leave Whitestar for a year. Steve asked the port captain about Morocco. Previously there were reports of sailboats being stolen there. Despite that being in the past, a lot of sailors still have misconceptions about this Maghreb country. He assured Steve that boaters in Gibraltar and Spain regularly go to Morocco for repairs, maintenance and winter storage. The Spanish-run marina in Smir has a great reputation – the King of Morocco keeps his impressive fleet there. Based on his comments and a favourable article about Morocco in Cruising World, we were off on another adventure, to Morocco.

We had no luck reaching the marina by phone or e-mail and later heard exceptional weather knocked out power, caused extensive flooding and restricted communication for a few days. Our departure from Gibraltar bound for North Africa however, was under sunny skies, a very light breeze and flat seas. In the distance we could make out the Rif Mountains rising above the haze. Suddenly Steve jumped up, went below, returning a short time later with a huge grin on his face. He had an idea, which led to a ‘hoser’ solution to the high temperature problem. He connected the water hose to the washdown pump, to the raw water pump. This meant we could now motor faster at 1800 rpm.

Sailing by the coastline, I was surprised at how green it appeared. My impressions from reading about Morocco were of a desolate and arid land. Instead I saw little whitewashed towns and villages nestled in emerald hillsides as we sailed towards Port Marina Smir. In spite of arriving in the middle of Ramadan, we were well received at the marina and berthed along the main avenue, between the palm trees. Hotels, restaurants, bars, cafes and shops, surrounded by holiday developments, make this a popular spot for Moroccans, many of whom are curious about visiting yachts, especially those with Canadian flags.

We worked hard preparing Whitestar to be hauled out but we also had some fun. We hired a local guide/taxi/rug dealer to accompany us to the beautiful Medina of Tetouan, a city that still looks like it did in the 13^th century; with low houses, narrow winding alleyways, tile decorated doorways and windows, and locals selling their craft on every street. Mint tea was served and the sheer number, variety and beauty of Berber rugs on offer soon overwhelmed us. So we did what everyone who comes here does… we bought rugs to be shipped home. In spite of having doubts, they did in fact arrive in Canada a few weeks later. And no duty was charged!

Our last night in Morocco was spent enjoying a delicious traditional meal and sampling local wine. A wonderful way to reflect on our voyage and appreciate sailing, one of life’s great experiences!