THE MINNOW IN THE MED 2018
As blogged by me already, last year's maiden voyages (for us; she ain't really new) of Damacle I shared with friends via email. Susan, sailing in Liguria and the Cinque Terre that August, coined a memorable moniker for our new toy: the Minnow in the Med. So, let this repeat 'box-set' of my scribbles, slightly edited and re-organized for clarity, be known as such.
Alas, the blogspot tool I'm using seems to be a simple old thing, so pre-dating or re-arranging posts on it is well beyond me, and thus all 2018 will go down in my blogging history as June 2019. 2019's Damocletian Voyages in the meantime continue as May 2019.
C'est la vie. La beau vie.
However, I have attempted to create an index of sorts - little chart-buttons that if you click on them will take you to a particular passage. Try them; they might work.
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Valletta to Sciacca - May 2018
Well, it's late Thursday evening and we have got to Sicily and are lying in the marina in Licata half way down the Sicilian south coast.
Tuesday afternoon in Valletta and most of Wednesday was spent getting the jib furler rigged up. There was a final hiccup in the afternoon because the jib wouldn't progress all the way up the groove in the aluminium tube/foil around which it rolls up when you furl it. Reason: dirt, dead insects and other detritus which we had 'forgotten' to check for. Our young rigger (Matthew from ProLink; good guy) therefore had to progress up the forestay with the jib as we hoisted to clear out the blockages as they built up/were encountered.
Before this last issue had been spotted, we had already decided we were not going to leave till Thursday morning, which we duly did at 05:45. We put Damacle on AutoPilot to hoist the main, but alas the AP packed it in! It had worked on the water on the afternoon we had gone out to test things the week before. I think there is a disconnect/fault with the ram.
Worse though, the Jabsco heads pump seems to have a fault. It worked the two weeks we were living on board in Malta. It is as if it is locked (with a half-twist) but I can't unlock it (I can twist it round and round forever). I have asked my friend Dermot (from Palma, but when I rang him it was 3 o'clock in the morning in California) and it would seem there is a blockage. Have somebody calling round later to hopefully fix it.
But, anyway, the passage across was magnificent. The wind never got much above 8 knots, but we had several hours of engine-unassisted sailing at 6.5 to 7 knots and for the rest used the engine lightly to keep speeds above 6 knots, and we docked at 19:45 as the light started to fail, i.e. averaging 5.5 knots for the 77 nautical miles the crow/seagull would fly. The gauge said we used a quarter tank of diesel(about 25 litre?). Not bad at all.
Well, a swim and a dive quickly remedied the rudder vibration, and turns out a young mechanic/handyman by the name of Elia Di Prima figured and implemented a temporary solution for the heads, which involved shorting out the three-way valve and holding tank, so that the loo pumps out directly to sea old-style. Dermot Bremner's words and photos from faraway California also helped me understand the complexities of Jabsco systems.Which leaves the AP and a new problem - no hot water in port as the new Quick boiler appears to be not quite working.
And thus, a day later, Susan and I were away from Licata. Despite the stress, it was a very pleasant stopover as we met some lovely people from different parts of the world who were very welcoming and helpful.
Well, I must stop starting off these scribbles with
Well, below the valley oh,
Green grows the lilly oh,
Right among the bushes oh,
and so on (Trad/Christy Moore/Planxty).
But well anyway, the wind was light from abeam, and with the engine ticking over at 1800 and our sails up we sailed close-hauled doing 6.8kn linea recta for Sciacca, to arrive as night fell at c 20:00. We went alongside what in the dusk seemed a slightly derelict pontoon and went about investigating how to get out of the well-fenced marina perimeter and more importantly how to get John and Tricky in, my new crew scheduled to be arriving a few hours later to, together with Peter arriving Sunday, replace Susan homeward bound, for the passage to Sardinia's Porto Corallo.
Chiacca is pronounced Tschakka in the local Sicilian dialect apparently, but in all honesty the place and its marina, Circolla Nautico "Il Corralo", is far from 'tschakka' (check it out at Emile Ratelband on https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wjijpOB4-NE).
After John and Tricky joined us there late on Saturday, we might have got away on Sunday, but, alas, there was no fuel to be tanked, so we hung about, after exchanging Susan (back to Ireland via Palermo) for Peter (from Ireland via Palermo, another great lad altogether and then enjoyed the local delights. At night, the place gains some charm.
Sciacca to Porto Vecchio - June 2018
Arbatax is lovely and the harbour tax was surprisingly kind at only E35 (fuel 1.78 though!). We stayed an extra night and thoroughly recommend it.
After leaving Arbatax for Porto Cervo on Thursday, it started to rain. This was not part of the plan. Nevertheless, the rain steadily got heavier, and only cleared away as the evening set in. Having been serially warned by all that Porto Cervo would be very expensive, it was a big surprise that at €50 for the night, our berth was the same price as we had paid in Tchakka!
We did however make the mistake of enjoying a bottle of wine in YOU, after which we retired to The Lord Nelson for burgers and beer. It got quite loud in The Nelson after midnight as crew after crew (motley?) and hand-bagged lady after lady wandered in off the street and from their hotels. The Audi Super Yacht Regatta was on, and with no wind and rain for a second day in a row, the boredom factor was higher than normal.
But the next morning (it was Friday by now) it was back to sunshine and at last some wind again. We motored out to the super yacht starting area to practice our amateur camera work, whilst keeping a safe distance from the bermuda-rigged, carbon-canvassed 30m to 40m machines, looking for all the world like paintings by L.S. Lowry with dozens and dozens of matchstick men standing around on the decks and sitting on the rails.
By midday we had seen enough, hoisted sail, killed the engine and set course close-hauled for Corsica's Porto Vecchio. We bombed along at 7kn plus until, just outside the harbour entrance, the wind went fickle as dark clouds moved in overhead and the rain began to fall again. The town and the marina are far in up a long, beautiful estuary, whose hilly shores are studded with pockets of pretty second homes, and the old town, where all the bars and restaurants are, is up a pretty exhausting steep hill which proves to be well worth the climb as the views from on-high are simply magnificent.
We had a great last night with John and Tricky, and with their Corsair flight leaving at the Godly hour of 12:05 the next day, we allowed ourselves one or two more for the road(s), which we discovered to be twisty and busied with a certain reckless abandon by the natives, as we drove our hired car to the airport the next day and then - Pete and I now alone - on to Ajaccio, the birthplace of Napoleon. Ajaccio was not a highlight, but the drive there and back through beautiful well-kempt cliff-hugging villages certainly was.
Vecchio to Rosignano - June 2018
Ria tells me it is useful practice to enter your destination in the log only after you have arrived. If adopted, it would have saved me crossing out Taverna, because it silts up periodically and hasn't been dredged for a while and a yacht drawing 2 metres got stuck on the bar across the entrance quite recently, or so the Capitainerie told us.
Given the wind was blowing a nice F4 across the entrance as we approached we therefore chickened out and diverted to our next destination, Marciana on Elba, duly mooring up there sometime after 1 a.m. Set at the foot of Mount Capanne, Elba's highest peak, Marciana is a lovely, sleepy place, excepting that there is a one-person standing-room-only-cages cableway to the summit of Capanne, which the daredevils in us could not have resisted the adrenaline-rushing pleasure of if it hadn't been clouded over in fog and mist. Phew! Instead Ria and I went for a swim in the afternoon in the rain and Peter and Hagen went for a pint.
Having refreshed and relaxed ourselves in Marciana, Wednesday early we sharply got away destination Pisa, but the wind was fitful and not in accordance with the hires wrf 4km resolution grib for the Ligurian Sea from OpenSkiron. By 2 p.m. however forecast and actual synchronized into a building headwind and we diverted to de' Medici, a huge marina on the coast near Florence near a huge Solvay chemicals facility.
Much of the town – it iscall ed Rosignano – is quite unprepossessing, but we found a nice almost empty restaurant on the beach to the south of the marina, with an uninterrupted view across to Elba as we dined. Not as nice as the lunchtime venue in Marciana, that Pete had found the day before, mind you.
Next morning, Pete left us (and his sunnies in the shower) for Pisa Airport, and we turned round for points south again, perhaps San Vincenzo, we thought, but it turned out Elba was more practical and more attractive.
Rosignano to Pisa - June 2018
So... maybe, well... Damacle finally arrived in Marina di Pisa on Monday evening, five days after having dropped off Peter in Rosignano, 40nm S of Pisa. Tuesday the crew (Ria and Hagen) and I did Pisa city; 20 minutes inland by bus following the Orno river. We viewed the tower from a safe distance, preferring to do the cathedral and the baptistery instead, which also lean quite a bit, if not quite so precariously as the tower.
Brilliantly bright in their recently cleaned-up marble, travertine and other white masonry, and painstakingly, exquisitely decorated by cohorts (Pat Kenny, please note, the collective noun on this occasion is marginally appropriate) of renaissance artisans and guildsmen, set in a green, soft (very) parkland against a sky (obviously) blue background, these and the other buildings of the Piazza del Duomo are of course incredibly impressive. However, we found the old back streets of the medieval city more interesting and charming by far, and also educed that the price of a pizza was inversely proportional to the distance from the Dome.
But enough on Pisa and back to our voyaging which, as a first stop took us back to Elba, where we moored up in Porto Azzurro, it must have been Thursday afternoon. Azzurro is the most touristy place on the island and very nice but rather overcrowded, even in the middle of June. The showers were poor – well away from the harbour, basically aging public conveniences manned by a man who grudgingly let you in, without extorting a euro if you have a marina card.
We all love Elba though and so the next morning we did a short sail to Golfo di Campo further west along the south coast where we dropped the hook (first time; everything worked), went swimming and launched the dinghy. After eating on board, and when the wind had dropped, we rowed ashore and enjoyed un bicchiere di vino.
In the morning we decided it was time to head back north, but with the wind coming from there, it was either going to be Isola di Capraia or Macinaggio on the north eastern tip of Corsica. As it turned out the wind brought us to Macinaggio first, a big marina in a very sleepy place but with a nice selection of waterfront restaurants.
Capraia, the next day, wasn't very far away, and once the gradient wind filled in, we reached across to it at an average 7 knots in a few hours. Unusually, Rod Heikel, of Imray Pilot (Italy and Mediterranean France kindly donated to the boat by John W) fame unusually does not call Capraia a "gem", but it is. We were moored to on the quay wall by 2 p.m. and by evening, the whole wall was full. Hagen and I took the bus up to the village, the castle and tower above. All holiday homes now, but old world, quiet and a lot cooler than at sea level.
Monday then, it was time to try for Pisa again. This time the wind was forecast to move into the north west as the day progressed, so trusting the forecast we set off at 40E or so for the Italian coast, and indeed by midday we had managed to luff up to 0N, thus staying just west of the shoals complete with ancient towers in front of Leghorn known as the Secche della Meloria.
And now, as I type away, Hagen and Ria have come back to the boat. Air traffic control in France, supported by their Greek and German colleagues, is on strike delaying the Ryanair to Stansted and wrecking the chance of making the onward connection to Cork. As Ria remarked before: "When on a sailing holiday, it is best not to write down your destination until after you have arrived".
Pisa to Imperia - July 2018
Since we traveled to the boat via the St Bernard Pass from Sion to Marina di Pisa, where I had left Damacle for a month after her Tuscan travels, this was eminently possible, and we found that Camogli, where we stopped for lunch, was gorgeous, but not suitable for sailing craft at all, and Bocca di Magra had nice marinas all the way up the river to the bridge, but there is a sandbar across the entrance which can shoal to 1.5m. Apart from that, Carlo Alberto de Laugier (Scarabocchia to his online friends) advised that the mosquitoes there resemble horseflies.
We also drove through Marina di Carrara, the port of Carrara, which is basically a long tarmac strip with marble works either side interspersed with the odd yacht yard. We duly scratched it off the list of potential ports-of-call, while noting that the white gorges and crevices Ria, Hagen and I had seen from sea a month earlier was not snow after all, but simply bare Carrara stone!
Damacle was in good shape when we got back on board. Stefano had loosened the stern lines and eased further. Something to remember to do oneself the next time. We had dinner in the marina's yacht club, which is situated in the middle of the marina basin; a lovely setting, and quite an improvement on the streetside eateries in the beach resort which Ria, Hagen and I had frequented waiting for flights home to materialize.
The next morning we did Pisa (15km inland from the marina at the mouth of the Arno), looked up at the tower, and rather than wander through any of the monuments (2 for E6.-) hired a jaunting car (can we call a horse-drawn carriage that in Italy?) for a tour through the old centre. Susan hadn't seen a horse for a week, so as Dave Cameron might have said 'it was the right thing to do'. Apart from that, it was very informative, and so we now know that group of buildings there are the court of the Templars, and that building there was where Galileo worked, and yonder was the court of the Medici's, etc.
By noon, we were back in the marina and quickly got under way, destination Portovenere, where I had made a reservation via goo'-ol' email. We berthed in the old harbour, alongside maybe a dozen other yachts stern-to along the outer wall. A further ten or so motor cruisers filled the other quay. Quite select in other words, and we payed twice as much as we did in Porto Cervo, six weeks earlier. The place is gorgeous though, tucked in on the landside of a little strait between it and Isola Palmaria, where once Byron roamed apparently.
Five days later and we have gone as far west as we intend to go this cruise. We are in Imperia; Diano, 3.5nm NE of here and our preferred stop-point a fraction closer to Corsica, proving to be yet another harbour not able to accommodate a J-122. En-route from Portovenere we anchored in the bay of Sestri Levante, spent a night in Arenzano, a lovely, sedate (comparatively), slightly gentrified resort west of Genoa where we'd certainly return, and a night in Finale Ligure, quite the opposite to Arenzano.
We've experienced mostly light headwinds, generally not in line with the meso-scale gribs for the Ligurian Sea, which I have been downloading from OpenSkiron. The last two days the wind has built up to F4 in the afternoon, and yesterday in particular, after passing close under Isolotto Gallinara for some rubber-necking (scuba-diving seems to be popular there too) of this private demesne, where St Martin of Tours (briefly) lived the life of a hermit before moving on to greater things, we had great fun beating into it and then romping into Imperia at 8 knots plus. Dropping and stowing the main was hard work though.
Imperia is a big, sprawling seaside resort, with two large marinas and quite a flock of the smaller (30m or so, semi-production) super motor yachts moored up, a strip of beach in the bay behind the western breakwater where the parasols, chairs and beds for hire are ten rows deep and stretch the entire length of the strand, and high jinks amusements and open air disco's that stay open into the early hours of the morning. We're on a public part of said western breakwater for only E 30 a night; a record low for us this year.
Tonight we dine with the honorary commodore of the Sailonline Yacht Club, Piero Meda and his wife Paola, who live a little further up the coast in Sanremo. He and I will have to check ourselves and not talk nerdy stuff all night, although the fact that our little club's virtual simulation of the currently real life Golden Globe Race has attracted more than 450 entrants, and that 80% or more of the virtual fleet has eschewed the use of routers, just like the real life fleet who are circumnavigating using boat types and technology that were available to Robin Knox-Johnson and his peers for the first non-stop round the world race fifty years ago, will undoubtedly have to be reflected on.
And, hopefully, assuming the winds are kind, Thursday dawn we will set sail for Macinaggio on the north east tip of Corsica, where Damacle has been before.
Imperia to Pisa - July 2018
Instead, we returned to attractive Arenzona and again went into Portovenere also, where this time we anchored off. There's a stiff breeze oft times blowing down the steep-sloped little channel between the town and Isola Palmeria across from it and after straining on the chain awhile, I thought we were dragging a bit. Trying to correct, somehow I hooked the anchor round a chain fixed to the bottom, so that was that: we weren't dragging anymore.
Luckily when the wind went down, the loads lessened and the powered winch could get the anchor up to a shallow diving depth without too much strain, and luckily some more, a second involuntary swim (the first had been in Licata to clear the prop; there'd been plenty of voluntary ones since then as well, of course) proved productive and I was able to lift the fouling chain off the fluke. Thank goodness!
My crew, Miss Jones (mock me, call me Rigsby) who had been anxious to see Elba (if not via Corse) vetoed any further ideas of overnight passages and we returned to Marina di Pisa pretty much the same way we had gone north a week earlier. The seaside town is factually quite underwhelming, a not particularly popular local beach resort, but the the yacht marina is excellent and at E1000 a month reasonable value by Italian standards, and the strange fishing constructions where the Arno runs into the sea have to be seen to be believed.
In between some pleasant meals in the marina restaurant, we tidied up, negotiated a new deal for another month got a write-down to zero on the car parking and then headed home, a journey that proved to be less than uneventful, as the Defender broke down in the UK, but that's another story and not sailing.
Pisa to Procida - September 2018
To get to Bella Elba a.s.a.p., we did a big sail straightaway for Porto Azzuro, which harbour was as charming as before when we got there. The winds – and things continued like this – were fitful, some wind from the land early in the morning and then very little till c 3 p.m. when a sea breeze would set in which would strengthen to perhaps 14kn (edge of F4) by 6 p.m. and then die away again. We enjoyed fine fayre in Azzuro and then played cards well into the night. Cards, like the wind pattern, became a recurring event during our week together!
The next day we sailed on as planned to Gianuttri. Arriving late after a late start, we were forced to go very close in under a low cliff in order to get the hook to touch and hold. Three or four better anchorages in a small cove had already been taken; very much alas, as the mozzies in the vegetation atop our cliff found us no bother and tasty. We played cards anyway.
Next up was Santa Marinello, which turned out to hide a lovely village center, unspoilt by tourism, up on the hill above the marina, with at least one nice restaurant, which Fred and Ross had discovered on their explorations. We played cards late into the night again.
Late in the morning it was onward to the Bay of Anzio, where I had hoped to moor up in the harbour of a town named Nettuno. But they had no room and we diverted to Anzio itself, where we moored off for absecond night afloat, and where two terrible things happened. We ran out of water, and, the Gods, having an evil sense of humour, then drowned us in a proper thunderstorm at around four the next morning while we slept. Many windows were open, including the one over the chart table, and much drying out was required when we realized what was happening, but alas my pc (on the chart table) only recovered briefly to stabilise with 'special needs' (external screen and keyboard). The memory is still good, though.
Relentlessly, the voyage continued and the next port did give us shelter. It was Formia in the Golfo di Gaetta, where the office run by the Corpo delle Capitanerie di Porto, Coast Guard or Guardia Costieri for short, let us have a berth on the fishing boats quay. At first sighting, this did not seem a particularly attractive allocation, but once ashore, we found an amazing mass-market fish restaurant beside the cold stores and auction hall.
We were now getting closer to Naples and I called the port of Ischia. No luck as so often, but Procida, the island in between Ischia and the mainland was more accommodating. Procida is a gem (I borrow from Rod Heikel for the purpose of paraphrasing once again), and we can be glad it was there we ended up and not Ischia, which surely would have been more of a tourist trap. By now it was Saturday and after a hearty breakfast and another shower, we made the short journey across to Pozzuoli; a bumpy ride as half of Naples were coming the other way in their cruisers and speedboats at Italian velocities!
Pozzuoli is the place where the Romans mined pozzolana, their volcanic ash additive for cement, which has given their structures the incredible long-lived strength that has seen so many survive till this day; at least this is what my new crew, Joao Malafaia, proprietor of Pertis Civil Engineering in Lisbon told me the next day when he arrived, and after Fred and Ross had flown home Sunday afternoon. Thank you, father and son.
Pozzuoli to Milazzo - September 2018
The next morning the, we, that is Pete Hogan, he of the 30ft long-keeler Molly B, Joao Malafaia, he of the virtual sailonline yacht psail, and I of Damacle, left bright and early to continue Damacle's voyage south. We put in a long leg of 65nm or more straightaway and as night fell we anchored in a gorgeous cove under the southern cliffs of Cape Pallinuro, somewhere where Pete had been before not a month earlier with his brother Neill. A great find!
We swam, ate, drank and chatted and the next day we continued on for Cetraro; another long passage, but we got in early enough to be harassed by the proprietor of the sole (as in only, although of course he did do fish) restaurant in the vicinity of the marina, who also offered to drive us into town for free. Hah! We opted to walk, and half way there, said exploitant of the Gamberorosso (Red Rackham?) came driving by gesticulating insistently for us to get in. We declined.
Old Cetraro itself is a hilltown, with thankfully a Lidl at the end of the beach strip at the foot of the hill. Joao and I went shopping, Pete went hill-climbing and he re-joined us much later in the bar just opposite the Lidl. It had no food (other than the usual generous quantities of snackfood that accompanies your drink in Italy) and so we went back to the marina early (the bar owner's young son drove us back, clearly we were in a differently paced Italy now), saw that The Gamberorosso was closed, checked himself wasn't waiting for us around a corner, and cooked some of our new purchases ourselves.
The next day, a further 50nm odd took us to a further hilltown, but this time a tourist hot spot. Tropea is the ferry departure point on the mainland for Stromboli and the Aeolian Islands; just like Pozzuoli is for the Pontin Islands off Naples. However, unlike in Pozzuoli, the good people of Tropea make a determined effort to cash in on and compete with the islands tourist trade.
The fact that their hilltown fortress is a brilliant piece of organic, slightly dilapidated architecture helps them no end, and the marina, although a bit expensive at 75 Euro for a 40 foot yacht, provides a courtesy bus service to the top (and a welcoming bottle of potable wine). So up we went, dined on pizza and octopus, and got blown and washed away by a thunderstorm, which given that all dining everywhere up on the hill was in the open air, they clearly weren't expecting.
Stromboli lies more or less due west of Tropea, the Straits of Messina more or less due south, and Lipari, the largest of the Aeolian Islands that Stromboli is part of, approximately south west. A detour was going to be needed to sail-by Stromboli, so once again we left early and once again the usual weather pattern played out over the course of the day; a light wind off the land in the morning till about 10:30, then calm, and then a building seabreeze from about 15:30 on till dusk.
Heading west, the morning land breeze was from astern and so we motored, to soon discover that waste management the further south you travel down the Italian peninsula becomes steadily more of an optional thing, as we caught a second wrap of stuff around the prop. This had happened a day earlier as well, and on that and this occasion, Pete was in quickly to remove the detritus. This time it was a colourful, almost artistic clump, made up of blue and white fish-netting and bright yellow and black nylon rope. Stromboli was smoking steadily as we approached and passed by, but there were no belches of sparks.
Having decided we would end our passage in Milazzo, which was about as near as I felt I could get to Palermo (Ryanair only flies to Palermo) and still make it feasible to get to Malta via Syracuse within the schedule of the overall plan after the next planned crew change (where Pete and Joao were to leave me to be replaced by Susan and Eileen), we also decided to break our journey through the islands earlier than a Lipari landfall would have done. Instead therefore we anchored in a little cove just west of Punta Torrione on the south coast of Isola Panarea.
Another beautiful spot, although the chart shows cables underneath and this was not wrong as we discovered the next morning. More swimming by Pete, to put a rope round to lift the cable off the anchor flukes, quickly solved the problem and we were off to Milazzo, where I had reserved a berth in Marina del Nettuno, right inside the old harbour.
As nobody was responding on the VHF, we moored along the outside of a finger and I went searching for assistance. Yes, they had a berth for us, but it looked narrow and I decided to reverse in from outside. Nearly docked, suddenly Damacle lost way. It seemed to me we were aground. I revved the engine, but Damacle did not budge. But there was 9m of water according to the chart and the ormeggiatori, so the problem was Damacle's own. With the aid of a rubber duck she was pushed into position, and after checking all the transmission bits were connected, I decided to dive in. Maybe the propeller had folded closed? But no, that was not it. The propellor was g-o-n-e!
Milazzo to Valletta - September 2018
Pete had already found an ormegggiatori in the office who spoke passable English. (There is a need to learn Italian if one persists in sailing in the Tyrrhenian, Ligurian, and other Central Mediterranean Seas). The 'ormi' put me on the phone to a diver and after a while it became apparent that the diver could only work with a full team of three to comply with the regulations as the Guardia Costiera were next door and they would be watching. Price 600 Euro. But your prop is lying in 9m of water on a silted bottom, so we may not find it and you are not permitted to dive yourself (Pete as always was all set to jump in) as we are in a commercial harbour.
Plan B then. The 'ormi' tried two boatyards across the water from the marina, and yes, one had a prop and would be able to lift us out, put it on, and lift us back in again. On Monday; here is their phone no. So we hung around Milazzo for the weekend. Milazzo is a busy, slightly grubby, quite typical smaller Sicilian town with some ancient fortifications out to sea built by the Norman King Roger. Pete and Joao went to investigate the Castello, occupied over the ages variously by said Normans but by Greeks, Romans, Byzantines and Normans, before them.
I doodled about on the boat, then we had dinner, and then we had Sunday. Joao caught a very early train on Monday for Palermo, Pete no-showed for his flight back to Dublin, and Susan and Eileen wisely decided not to come out, generating more no-expenses incurred profits for Uncle Michael (O'Leary).
Monday 08:30 I got in touch with the boatyard, but it wasn't till 11:00 till Antonio Costa, the yard's proprietor showed on the marina for a chat (not a look, what there was to look at was under the water, and swimming was not permitted). The plan now changed to C. A propeller would have to be got from Catania and then they would tow the boat out into the bay, dive there (one man) and fit the propeller sub-aqueously. Price 1000 Euro.
As the racing folding twin blade that we had lost costs c 2500 Euro new, this clearly was going to be a temporary measure, and at best it would now happen Tuesday, but would it? After Antonio went his way, Pete said to me "You're mad. How far is Malta? Let's sail there". 180nm said Navionics and so by 12:30 we had got ourselves towed out, the sails up and we were sailing at 6kn close-hauled on port in the general direction of the Straits of Messina. Plan D!
As we closed on Torre Rasocolmo on the north eastern corner of Sicily, the wind headed and we put in a hitch north, tacking back when we could clear the headland and the shoals and banks off it. At the point the wind died and after about a half hour of very slow sailing, a new wind now out of the south came in and freshened and were now romping in on starboard towards the entrance to the straits where we hardened up to commence a series of short tacks along the eastern Sicilian coast, hoping to avail of stronger wind off the land and a forecast tendency (we were using Windy now; the puter you will recall had broken down more than a week ago) for the wind to clock/veer west.
We got a couple of nice shifts but by 20:00 as the light failed, we had had enough for a while and kept her on the gaining starboard tack and went into alternating-three-hour watch mode. Slowly the wind died and by the early hours of the morning what there was had gone abaft. Probably slightly further offshore Sicily than we had intended, we slowly broad reached back towards the coast and as the day settled down the wind shifted back again to SSW.
By 18:00 or so we were passing Syracuse, and just like the day before passing Messina, we were short-tacking Damacle in under the coast, enjoying the view of Ortega Island under a setting sun. No time to stop though and not sure anchoring without engine-power in Syracuse Bay would be a sensible thing to do.
Around 22:00 the wind failed us again. We were by now off Portopalo and by keeping to a course of 240 with the wind abaft, we stayed inshore as one fishing boat after another steamed out across our track to their fishing grounds further out to sea. Twelve hours later the south westerly was back and with more west in it we could lay 190, in a heading to the east of Malta. A big shift around 14:00 played into our hands and we tacked to now hold 240 straight at the island. It was looking like we were going to be 'ome 'n 'osed before dinner.
It didn't happen. Joao, back in Portugal, by email had warned us about rain clouds and high CAPE (Convective Available Potential Energy) values drifting in across Malta from Africa, and sure enough, this time the wind died early at 16:00 or so; distant big black clouds eliminating the gradient and shooting down lightning. The storm drifted eastward, but the wind did not return.
We were now nearing the Malta Bank. This is not where Denis O'Brien keeps his spare change, but a shallower (70 to 80 meter) patch also known as the Hurd Shoals to the NE of Valletta where commercial shipping anchors waiting for instructions to either head west to Gibraltar and Spain, north to Italy and Marseilles, east to Piraeus and Turkey and south(ish) to Suez and the Red Sea. At night, they are lit up like Christmas trees and don't move.
A good place to drift around then if you have no AIS. And so we manoeuvred in their general direction only to discover that when there was no wind at all we were still moving - at about 0.5kn in an easterly direction. By 01:00 in the morning, I was starting to wonder should we hang some fenders out just in case we drifted onto hopefully the slab side of one or other tanker, bulker or OBO.
But then the wind came back and Damacle started to make progress towards Malta again. But so did the storm cells, complete with the associated thunder and lightning. By keeping south east of Valletta we avoided their paths as long as we could, but by 04:00 the game was up and we got hit by a rain squall.
We furled and reefed and as the wind moderated we entered Marxamsett Creek. In the dark, we were unsure about just tying up somewhere and although there were and always are a few boats anchored off the yacht club in Ta'xbiex, it's pretty deep there with not much space and we'd have had to do it under sail. I funked the challenge and we sailed out again and then around and around until the wind started to die rapidly. Oh dear, not good either, and as quick as we could we drifted her back in to the top of the creek where in the dawning light we could now see an empty yacht club finger, and borrowing the dinghy paddles made our way onto it. We had arrived. It had been a terrific trip!!
Afterwards, Alfred Caruana, our great friend in Malta, said the Creek Marina has a 24 hour service. Channel 13. All summer long, marinas up and down the length of Italy had been asleep by 20:00 and some even prohibited you to enter if their staff was not present, so I hadn't anticipated that!
