9 April 2012… Re-entry

(In my journal I wrote April as March)

Preparing for re-entry. Not at sea. Not in Greece. Not in Albania. On a train bound from Ancona to Bologna via Rimini, Italy. It’s nearly a week since we docked at Vounaki. I feel like Hunter S. Thompson. I blame the Captain, his word is law. But I guess I don’t need much encouragement. If I start, I’ll go for it. He knows it too. Mischief, mischievous, messers. We partied as if all our sons and daughters were being married at once, Friday night proving too much for us. We started at the Church Bar, where the marina folk like to go first. It’s the first chance I had to chat to them. Stu from the other morning was there, I’d told him my story of thinking the moon was a volcano. He dubbed me Volcano Stu. Like Emotional Pete, I wonder will it stick. I was telling the story of Pelican Ted a long time ago. Pete’s story, it was on his boat. Ted is in his seventies, and when you get that old, you don’t waste a hard-on, they say. He came up on deck, annoyed at something. “That fucking pelican, Jesus Christ!” Pelicans, apparently, are the cattle of the sea, in that they share the same curiosity. They’ll land on deck and peer through the hatch at what ever is going on inside. So Ted tells Pete, “I’m trying to have a wank, and this fucking pelican is staring at me! I’ve no fucking curtains, the fucker won’t go away! Fucking pelican! Jesus Christ!” Pelican Ted he is.

We stop in Rimini. I was here with my family in the eighties. Cattolica, I think, a bit up or down the coast. I remember wandering around the old circular buildings that surrounded the marina, clothes hanging out over the balconies, a sight so foreign, I’d never seen anything like it before. A real living foreign town, not the resorts I had been to before in Spain. Rimini, a small familiarity after Greece, Turkey, thirty five days on a boat, madness at and away from sea. And now we’re heading to my cousins in Milano. David, Angela and little Edu. Some sanity. A family home. With Captain Mark ‘Moderation’ Alvey in tow. He’s a bit worried about presuming he’s welcome there. I told him what David had told me, “He kept you alive, Stuart, of course he’s welcome in our home.” I worry about the Captain now, just as he worried about me at sea. It’s hilarious to watch him deal with other languages. He’s travelled the world, but only makes the effort to pronounce destination ports accurately. Other words, he’s not bothered with. The twinkle in his eye, the mischievness, no one challenges him on language use, no one’s offended by his speaking English. It’s the way he does it. No one except maybe that woman in the tobacco shop at the ferry port in Igoumenitsa. We’d decided that Albania might be a bridge too far, so took a bus north to catch the ferry across the Adriatic. We had to hang around the port terminal, browsing, killing time. The counter of the tobacco shop was at it’s entrance. I was leaning over to see what brands they had when the lady told me not to. “You can’t go in there!” “Sorry, I’m just trying to see…” “You can’t!” “Can you please show…” “No!” She looked furious. “Can you smile?” I asked her. If looks could kill.

A train, in Italy, on Easter Monday. Standing room only until Rimini. And now I get a seat. As a bonus I’m sitting beside a lovely looking girl who looks strangely familiar. It’s been one of those trips. Like it was all in place before the act. Dan had lived in Portmarnock years ago, I’d probably passed him in the street, back when I was a child. Everywhere had a feeling of being there before, being at ease. Maybe it’s the lack of sleep. It has to have some effect. Now for some relative sobriety and the come-down. Re-entry, as Mark puts it. We’re so tired, so worn out. We died on our last night in Greece, no energy left. Mikey finally beat me in pool, and beat me well. We think we are sane, but there’s no way we could pass any test. Maybe, maybe not, I don’t know. I couldn’t say for a fact that I’m really here, couldn’t convince myself of the same. Too tired for too long. And still the idea of a transatlantic appeals to me. No stops, no land, get your rhythm and keep it, arrive mad but sober, no breaks, no competition, no indulgences. And it would be nice have some female company. The lads in the Church Bar all looked wrecked, except for one guy, Richie. I asked them all why this was, they replied, “He’s got a girlfriend!” And I busted some of my own preconceptions there. The surly engineer that I had thought would be interesting was disappointingly boring to talk with, and the blonde adventure types who I had presumed would be lacking in depth were great company. But putting sailors together can make for sobering conversation. Many people have been lost on deliveries. Story after story. One that sticks is from a transatlantic with a two man crew. One of whom came up on deck after sleeping to find the boat otherwise empty, and the deck shower hose hanging over the side, trailing in the water. His crew mate had been showering on deck, and fallen in. Gone. Forever gone. The rule is now that deck showers are banned. Something about losing balance when water runs over your head. As he’d been asleep for a while, it could have happened a couple of hours before. Imagine. On your own, lost your mate, and having to wait days before getting through to anyone on the radio. A lone crossing with a heavy heart. Another engineer knew our place in Kolpos Domvrenis, the Custom House cove. They’d sought shelter there in heavy seas, finding themselves in the same predicament as we had after passing through the Corinth Canal. There was room on the quay for them, and it seems that it is deep enough to moor. They hit it side on, the Skipper jumped off and went straight into the tavern, leaving him to tie up the boat. The cleats were being pulled away from the deck, the seas were so rough. He unwound the anchor chain, wrapped it around the mast, fixed it to a bollard on the dock, and followed his skipper. I asked him about the welcome. “Yeah, the guy was shouting a lot, making a big deal, but what could we do? In the end he calmed down, letting us stay for free, once we kept spending money at the bar. We were stuck there for days.” He didn’t like his skipper. Bad form for a Captain, leaving the boat early. Matters not how much money was he was on, like the Costa Concordia’s Commanding Officer, it’s not what you do.

The ferry across the Adriatic was somewhat like a condensed version of our week in Vounaki. Much the same as our few days in Turkey, Pilos, our day and a half in Lipari. We had a few drinks. After surrounding ourselves with English accents for the last while, we now replaced them with Americans. The way the English like to talk about themselves stems from a competitiveness. Sometimes I feel I should pity them. Do the English really have an identity? Or has it lost lost to the idea of Britishness? The Scots know who they are, the Welsh too. In Northern Ireland these days, each side of the old divide now calls themselves Northern Irish. The catholics know that they’re a different culture to us in the south. We didn’t have to put up with the troubles, not in the way that they did. The protestants too. They’ve realised, as far as my conversations with them went, that they have more in common with their fellow Northern Irish than the idea of Britishness fostered by the city of London. And now Americans. Students, over a hundred of them, with money to burn. We boarded at midnight, it took us all an hour to sort out cabins, get settled, and then the restaurant closed before anyone could eat. This is Greece. The guy, serving up to five minutes ago, told me that they close at one am. Closed? It’s not like he could go home. He stood on the same spot for an hour ultimately telling everyone that his company did not want their money. Makes us Irish seem organised. We cornered a couple of pretty girls and talked rubbish until they made their excuses. The next morning, I eavesdropped on a group of them. They’s quaintly cute in how they go on, analysing everything they had done whilst drunk the night before. “I was, like, so wasted but I really felt like we were bonding.” I ended up talking Spanish with a couple of Galician truck drivers. A greek kid with a classical guitar joined us, as did one of the Yanks. A six way conversation, my translation efforts making my head spin. It’s all too much. This last week has been one of release. We made it. The ultimate crown to the previous month. Tired, smashed, no breaks, no recuperation. It’s dangerous, bad decisions get made like this. I’m happy we didn’t try for Albania, but I’ll regret not taking the chance later.

The bad stories usually stem from arrogance of abilty. Our boat being Irish, I guess the only arrogance is the presumption is that the drink won’t catch up. It’s why we anchored the first night out of Turkey. And we were then better able for the bigger seas that later hit us. Sailors, mariners, more rock’n’roll than rock’n’roll itself. Even Keith Richards knew he had to stop sometime. Safe travels, don’t die. Lisa Hannigan’s words, dedicated to Mark on the last night of the tour he drove for her. A guardian angel, Lisa. As is Joe. Safe travels, we’re not dead yet. What next, we’ll see. Milano with the Vezzoni’s, Zurich with Phil and Meret, then on to Belfort and the girls. A beer on the porch in the evening, up early after a good night’s sleep, stolen naps in the day, playing with Emma when she’s not sleeping, or causing trouble. Three hundred metres above sea level, hopefully some salt will leave my body. It’s a constant taste in my mouth. Everything, absolutely everything is salty. Salty coffee, salty beer, salty smokes, a salty dog I be. The only thing that doesn’t taste of salt is salt itself, that tastes of nothing. It’s why Mark brings Tabasco sauce everywhere, the spice beats the salt. He’s not jesting, Monsieur Farceur, his mind is clear. It’s an amazing feeling, the clarity of thought. I fear I’ll lose it. Normally my head feels like a load of jack-in-the-boxes, constantly popping out, a deafening internal chit chat at times. Now it’s calm like the open sea, a horizon line the only feature. A Greek Skipper I’d met on the ferry, Petros, spoke of this. The perfect guy to meet on this last leg. He described the difficulty in maintaining that clarity of thought. He loses it himself, if he’s been on land for too long. And he’ll take his boat out at night, just to turn everything off and sit for a few hours. Calm his mind, calm the agitation. He tells his friends, “If you want to marry a girl, sail with her for a week. Then you’ll know if you can spend the rest of your life with her.” Calm minds, sparkling eyes, safe travels, don’t die.

We changed trains at Bologna, and stood in the bar carriage for the hour trip to Milano. Chatting away, we realised that we were the only people standing in the middle, the others all leaning on something or holding on for balance. We didn’t need to. I could feel all my muscles moving, twitching, compensating for the train’s movements. Some of them were checking us out. We have a weird look to us. Our eyes are crystal clear, the thousand yard stare, our sealegs giving a strange groove to our walk. Milano shocked us, we needed to get out to Monzo before the last trains of the night. It was a battle to join the pace of a city, but we made it onto the metro. The strap of my guitar case snapped as we ran for the first train. Having only two stops to go, I whipped out my knife and the string I kept on me, quickly cutting a piece and tying it off, no bother. I noticed the stares I was getting. Perhaps it’s time to put away the knife. I don’t need it here in my cousin’s place. Food and wine, and the warmest welcome ever. Such great people, it’s lovely to see them. We’ve been asked to babysit in the morning. Perfect. It’s all we can do. Play kids games with Eduardo. Our level, exactly. It was with child-like wonder that Mark had looked at me today on the platform in Ancona’s train station. “It’s Lisa!” he’s said. “Lisa?” We’d lost our Lisa Hannigan’s ‘Passengers’ album in Vounaki. We’d nearly left it on Eve, but kept her playing on Farceur. Somewhere in the Corinth Gulf, she’d disappeared. We couldn’t find her anywhere. And now, in Ancona, I could hear her voice again. “It’s Lisa!” Mark repeated. I thought she was just playing in my head, but I realised she was being played in the station’s bar. With amazement in my voice, I agreed with my Captain, “No way, it’s Lisa!”

Stuart Doyle, The Ballad Of Adam And Eve, March 4th – April 9th 2012

April 6th 2012

NOT FOLLOWING

We need to get off the boat. Tomorrow we’ll head for Albania, we think. We probably shouldn’t. Albania? Can we handle it? Are we in any state to try? Our advice is that they’re great people, very funny, but we might get hassle at the border. If the guards are being a pain, we’re told to mention the EU, as Albania want to join. It’s worked for others, they back off if you threaten to make a fuss. So, Albania. By bus. Just the Captain and I, or should I say Mark and Captain Doyle. He’s relinguished command for overland travel. I’m in charge, somehow. He’s sleeping it off. Dan is gone as are the Dutch ladies and gentlemen. They had docked at Aegina to pick up Fred’s wife and a friend of Pete. They arrived yesterday but only Luca’s left. Captain Luca, Pete gave him command for the last leg. His first command, fabulous. He’ll do a transatlantic this winter for sure. From La Rochelle in France to the Canary Islands. Then either straight across to St Martin, eighteen days at sea using the twenty two knot trade winds, or down to Capo Verde, off the Ivory Coast, and then across. Luca already has his day skipper ticket. He’s gained a lot of sea miles on this trip. As have I. There’s plenty of sailors out there who haven’t accumulated this amount of miles in years of weekend sailing. On many occasions in the last month I didn’t think I’d go for a transatlantic. If you ask me now, of course I’d do it.

The Dutch left town quickly. And Dan and Tom travelled together, a bus to Athens and a flight to London, Dan heading on via Belfast to his home in Monaghan. The French lads didn’t hang around long either, Helouise remained with us for an extra day. That was the day I wasn’t drinking. During the daytime, at least. Even at dinner, we only had a glass of Ouzo, and then went back to the boats, intending to have an early night. Dan and Mark were still up, just about. Helouise reckoned she had a bit of wine left, might as well finish it. She had a lot, and we did. And one from Dan’s stash. Another hoot of a night, another early morning. I’d promised coffee, and was woken by voices from a strange direction. A new arrival had moored beside us. The boss of this base and her crew. Another Stuart. They had just brought a fifty footer in, having hit huge seas at the mouth of the Corinth Gulf. Fifty knots at least, they described waves made that boat look small. I didn’t feel that these guys were prone to exaggeration. A celebratory beer for them, I stayed with coffee. Mikey picked Helouise up and I went with them to the bus station. She’s gone to Istanbul. Where east meets west. When they’re choosing where to go on a night out in Istanbul, they say “Europe or Asia?”, meaning which side of town. It reminds me of the different mentality I found in Turkey. I’d been describing our job to my friend Yalcin in Fethiya, clearing up his misconception that we were all being paid, and well paid. On hearing that only the Captain gets a wage, and all the fuel and provisioning has to come out of that, he wrinkled his face and said, “But you told me it is a big company. How can that be? Surely a company can’t get so big unless it treats it’s employees fairly?” Sound man, he doesn’t know capitalism.

So we’re all flying the coop. After focussing for so long on our final destination, now we have to organise getting out of here. Ross is staying, he’s working here for the season. Mikey has a house here. I was in it today, a house! Couch, tv, walls, windows, quite the novelty. Bobby lives on the other side of the bay, I saw his papers in his car. His name is Roberto. A son of refugees from Franco’s Spain, he tells me in his delightful cockney accent, “Oi ain’t even fackin English, Oim fackin Spainish, inni’!” The nannies have arrived, the girls who’ll look after the kids holidaying here whilst their parents get drunk by the pool. Polite English girls, In my best Dublin accent, I said “Howaryis!” to a couple of them. They replied “Yasas!” Surely they don’t think I’m Greek but then they wouldn’t be expecting a drunk paddy, would they? Land is dangerous, I repeat. Eighteen hours drinking in a day, days running into each other. I’ve kept to my average number of sleeping hours. Four per night. Awake for twenty hours each day. For more than a month now. We need to get off this boat.

But it is nice here, lazing on the deck, watching the girls figure out how to walk on a gangplank. It’s second nature to us, their challenge isn’t helped by the fact that there are lines everywhere, the boats are still tied up for winter, ropes criss-crossing all over the place. Still, funny to watch them. One of the girls is a honey, cute with a sparkle in her eye. I asked Mark, “Anyone here you think would make good crew? He grinned, but not for the reason you may think. “That girl, yeah, she could handle it, she’s got that look about her.” A good soul behind a pretty face on board would make for a different journey. He tells me a story from Lipari. A girl crewing with them was being hit on by some tourist. The skippers had to be restrained, they wanted his blood. There’s a sense of protection between us, we’re in this together, a tight bunch. And good crew can be hard to come by, some people just don’t make the cut. Where I stand on this, how I’m seen, I wasn’t sure. When Mark introduced me to Bobby in Turkey he’d said, “This is my, my, I don’t know what he is!” Maybe I’d been a passenger up until then, changing course to photograph the sunrise over Santorini, talking too much, a distraction. After dealing with tough seas on the shorter trip to here, he seemed proud to introduce me as his crew. When all the sailors were swapping stories, and being slightly dismissive of our plight in the Corinth gulf, he demanded their attention. “Yous have all grown up sailing, like myself. All your lives on the water. These guys, my guys, have never, ever done anything like this! Now that commands respect!” I smiled for my Captain, my friend Mark. When we got to know each other, we worked on the road around Ireland, swapping stories on the long drives. He always said he’d get me out on a boat. A different kind of madness. And much bloody easier than carting a couple of tons of music gear around the place.

The town, well it’s more a village, is sleepy enough. They seem happy to have the Sunsail people here, I’m sure it helps the local economy in a big way. The harbour near the town square houses the local fishing boats, a fisherman was slapping octopus against the concrete. Again and again. It tenderised the meat, he told us. Recognising our surprise when he spoke English, he asked us where we were from. Smiling, he lifted his hand to show a missing half finger. “I gave my finger to Cork University Hospital.” There’s also a couple of yachts, including Bobby’s, and a lifeboat from a large ship. It looks like the front end of a submarine.  Mark told me the story of a retired British navy man who travelled the open seas in one of these. He was moored in a posh Spanish marina to the horror of the more snobby types there. Minding his own business, he’d become friendly with his neighbour, a retired navy man like himself. The marina operators came to his boat with an eviction notice. He complained that he hadn’t done anything wrong, and had paid his fees, so on what count was he being asked to move on. They were having none of it, insisting that he go, until his neighbour appeared on the deck beside them. He had his full Spanish Navy regalia on. Gold trim, medals, the lot. And a very long, shiny sword. “What are you telling my friend? You don’t have the right to do this! Leave him alone”, and he whips out the sword, “or I’ll cut you fucking head off!” Brothers in arms, mariners against the marina. Each looking after their own. The resort here is currently populated by four types of people. The nannies who have started arriving. Us, the delivery guys, although now there’s only a few of us left. Then there are the marina engineers, the mechanics for the boats. One looks a surly type, I wonder if he has good stories. The other marina guys are the instructors for the coming season. Sailors, windsurfers, blondie hero types. Are they that interesting? I always wonder when it seems that image is as important as content. But then I’m a musician, so what the hell am I talking about? Preconceptions, terrible things. Enough lazing, our last night here. Can we handle another one? We need to get off this boat.

April 5th late afternoonish

38°46.252N 020°52.708E
Speed 0.0
Engine Off
No sail
Moored at Vounaki Marina

After passing so many islands, Corsica, Sardinia, Sicily, the Aeolian, and in the Ionian and the Aegean, nicos after nicos after nicos, we now go down to Nico’s place to eat. Our life here in Vounaki, Palairos, Greece, has taken on a sodden tinge. It is danger itself. We are a danger to ourselves, we’re in such a mad headspace. We hit land, and hit the pub. Oh so hard. The first day, two days ago, felt like three days. It feels like a week ago that I was alone on my last watch on Farceur. We were already showered and shaved on arrival, soon enough we headed into the town. Nico’s place. Food, noise, beer, noise, food, beer, noise, beer, beer, beer… We fell back to the boat before the afternoon was over. And then we all got up at nine that evening, hungover to bits, and headed back in.

To the Skipper’s Bar this time. Great sounds and a worn pool table. It was on. Me and Mikey renewed our rivalry, both of us with a stupidly flashy style of play. Years ago I beat the local champion in a pub match in deep south Spain. I’d played so badly in losing my first match that my team had tried to keep me off the table for the rest of the tournament, but in the end, I had to play the opposition’s main guy for the match. Best out of three, I lost the first frame. I was hammered, but focused so much, dug so deep, that I managed to win. Paco congratulated me, but he was pissed off at losing to someone who hit the balls “demasiado fuerte!” Now I’m playing the local hotshot, Captain Michael, and it’s like Hurricane Higgins versus Whirlwind White. In our minds, perhaps. I still beat him, but a on a few occasions it was his white going in off the black. Nearly always a black ball game.

And yesterday followed suit, I can’t discern one from the other. Was it last night that I went back to the French crews’ boat? Helouise, Simon(e?) and Christian, who were crewing for other skippers, are sharing this boat until they get out of here. We all have to leave, we have to get off our boat. We just don’t know how to, yet. A great session, singing songs on honour of our bosses, “Sunsail, c’est comme ca!” Simone proving a great improvisor, pity I didn’t understand all of it. Great craic, which ended when somehow Christian and I flew at each other. I dismissed myself and safely dealt with the gang plank. Yeah, it was last night. Or was it? Did yesterday even happen? Oh god. We did go to the mariner’s bar too, someone merntioned knifes and we all pulled ours out, comparing, admiring. Then to Skippers Bar, run by a biker dude, Apostolos. More pool and shenanigans, we’re a playful bunch. Until it all went wrong in the French boat between me and Christian. He came over in the morning when I was sitting with my coffee looking out at the bay. The poor lad, he felt awful. I didn’t think he had anything to say sorry about. If he did, I did. I went over with him to the others and we made our apologies to them. Not the only apology I have had to make. When we’d arrived here with all the crews out to welcome us, Tom was least delighted to see me. I made an effort to make up for my shit, he’s a good guy, we’re cool.

So today I’m not drinking. I’ve made it past lunchtime already. We went to Nico’s, the lads ordered beer with our food, I ordered water. Nico looks at me, “Water? Can you not see? This is a restaurant, not a hospital!” A persuasively funny guy. But I stuck to my guns. Watered and fed, I took a bit of a stroll around. Sweet spot, this. Small, rural, utterly charming. The children here have a lovely life. They all say “Yasas!” with a big smile, the ones who know say “Hello!”, beaming pride. Two were sitting in a small boat on the beach, they must have been four and six. Tiny. And they were engrossed in the conversation they were having. I’d love to know what they were talking about. You wouldn’t see old men playing chess with less concentration in their eyes.

April 3rd 2012

0125 hrs
38°23.749N 020°59.506E
Speed 5.3
Course 332°
After our fry last night, we had another beer, and decided the anchor watch schedule. Dan took the first at nine o’clock, mine was three hours later. The boat was still being pushed around by the westerly. Torch lights still moved about onshore. I dropped into my bunk. Sleep came quickly. As did waking up bang on midnight. And so it came to be that I crept on deck with my knife out. We all have knives, us mariners. The badge of honour. I’ve a four inch Opinel, bought in Canet. Always with me, it’s been good to have one sometimes. Some things need to be cut in a hurry. No one was around, the shoreline quiet. A cargo ship anchored in the western end of the bay glowed in the vague mist. The lads were asleep. No need for anchor watch, the wind had dropped.
Upping anchor this morning, we snuck out of the bay watched by a workboat that had gone over to the second ship, the one anchored to our west. Our precision was militaresque, if such a word exists. We had done well yesterday in tough circumstances. The captain gave me a big pat on the back. Quite literally. It was surprising to look back on how well we’d reacted, Dan handing me the torch, me getting to the bow quickly while keeping safe, thinking fast after so many languid days. And so little sleep over the last month. We had slept now. Reinvigorated with the bloodshaking Turkish coffee in our veins, we headed out to sea. A tugboat passed us. I don’t remember seeing it in our custom office cove, perhaps it’s from the town on the east side. I waved an almost apologetic wave. I must send that place a postcard. One from Howth. In Irish. “Ta bron orainn, bhimid gohana tuirseach ar fad!” I’ll sign it O Dubhghaill, see if they write back. Maybe one of my cousins will get it.

This crew, Dan and I, we’re a better crew now. Since I’ve known him, Mark has always said that he loves bad weather after too much calm. It sorts out a crew that have had it too easy. And we’ve had it so easy. It hasn’t even rained once. We’ve played it safe, as is usual form for deliveries. Don’t risk the boat, not if there’s no real rush. We waited in Pilos for a few days for the weather out at sea to calm. Leaving Turkey was different. The papers allowing our jester boat, Farceur, to stay in Turkey were up. She had to be taken out of Turkish waters that day. The other crews headed more directly to Corinth, but we knew Pete, Fred and Luca were going to hang around a little in the islands. A part of me wishes we had done that, but then we wouldn’t have had our greatest adventure yet. And it’s too easy to say that we shouldn’t have come through the canal into forty knots of wind in the gulf. The forecast was for ten, and there was no help from the officials at the Aegean entrance of the canal. But forecasts can be so useless, take the Fastnet disaster of ’79.

We’re back in the Ionian, this gulf belongs to that sea. A calm sea it is as we try for Vounaki in one go. We’re low on food, Dan didn’t find coffee when he tried at Corinth. He’s a couple of cigars, Mark’s low on ciggies, and while I’ve a decent pack of tobacco, I’ve hardly any papers left. Should give up the damn things anyway, been smoking far too much on board. We all tried to put a limit on the amount we’d smoke, and it lasted for a while at the start. But it’s difficult. You smoke to calm nerves, to stave off fatigue, for companionship. One lights up and automatically the other two will follow suit. Goddamn smokes.

Mark just got a text from two skipper in Vounaki, old friends of his. They leave in the morning, we arrive in the morning. One of them, Stefan, has done five transatlantics in one season, a remarkable feat. Good friends who get lucky enough to cross paths now and again on delivery routes. I wonder who’ll join us there before I leave. Ross and Tom are at least a day ahead, they should be there already. Adam’s crew are dawdling as Fred’s wife is joining them somewhere. Bobby and Mikey, I have no idea. They live around Vounaki and have promised us a good time. It’ll be good to end this with a session. Good people, this sub-culture of sailors. It felt like we were on land in Turkey for a week. Was it four days. Was it less? I remember drinking Rica one night because I was sick of beer hangovers. That was the night I threw the “failed empire off the east coast of Ireland’ phrase into a conversation. Well, it was more a rant, I think. Ross didn’t care, Mikey didn’t care for it. He was a little offended, I guess it’s fair enough. But his folks are Irish, aren’t they? My racism aside, I need to make it up to Tom a bit. There’s a hierarchy here, and I’m near the bottom. The skippers, of course, it’s obvious. Then there’s Dan and Fred, with a whole lot of experience in life. I compete with Luca just to talk shite, it’s a Portmarnock thing. Anyway, family being different, Tom, in his youth, took a bit of a slagging from me, as I’d nowhere else to turn. It doesn’t sit well with me, the underling status. And it sits just as badly, the fact that I vented it elsewhere. I wish I could say it was different, but I’ve been a dick.

Like when Mikey told me to stop whinging when I was offended by my captain. Another giving out to. For questioning his authority. Well not really, that’s how he took it but what I said wasn’t meant like that. We were both drunk. On land, drunken sailors the lot of us. It is dangerous, this land thing. The tirade in Pilos still rankles a little. When we’re at sea, the captain’s word is law. On land, however, I rebel against the idea. I feel more like we’re equals. But, as Mikey says, who deals with all the paperwork? Who feels responsible for your safety? You’re still on the boat. Who is our captain? It’s like the military, it has to be. Soldiers, sailors, skippers, mariners. I’m a musician, if I’m asked. And sometimes it takes a band leader to get things done. And like out here, a good leader listens to his crew. Another subculture. A tribe. But less ego out here. Get over yourself. Go a boy and come back a man. They don’t want passengers. There’s no stepping off the boat, no hissy fits, no bullshit. You’re found out very quickly out here. I wonder. Have I found myself out, or been found out? Or, as Eija asked me, have I found the four tools I’ve been needing all this time? I still don’t know what she meant, and that may say it all.

The long, stretched out gulf was not without entertainment. Three fighter jets passed high in a V formation, heading slightly east of north. A while before, a fighter bomber, maybe, flew low off our starboard beam, heading due east. So low, it would have been under the radar. It dipped its wings in answer to a salute from Mark. “Cool, man!” I told Mark of my friend’s story, she’d dated a fighter pilot, French Airforce. She’s a vegetarian so ordered veggie food at dinner. He asked, “You don’t like to kill animals? I kill people for a living!” I had to ask her if they’d fucked, and what was her report? “He was terrible!!” So much for top gun. So disappointing. Quick on the draw, them military types.

We fell in and out of wind, depending on the shape of the land to our north. Approaching the nearly to mile long Rio-Antirro bridge, we had to follow their instructions, radio when four miles away, request passage, wait and radio again a mile out. Captain likes to do this stuff well. We are representing ourselves here, you know. As we prepare, a big rust heap who’d been catching us, it’s line more to our south, got a scolding. The larger vessels are meant to radio ten miles out. He didn’t. The control at the bridge demanded identification, “You were meant to contact us six miles ago!” A mumbling reply, “oh, em, oh, sorry, em..” “Identify yourself, how many crew, port of destination…” The ship captain replies, sounding so meek. And he sounded like a big guy, this Russian skipper. We near the mark, Mark calls with a fine accent, always addressing the controller as “Sir”. The respect is palpable between the two, the control sounding relieved at some proper order here. As we near the mile mark, the Russian has to contact control again. He follows Mark’s example, “Yes, sir, no, sir..” We burst out laughing. It’s an amusing success for Monsieur Farceur.

And now it’s another movie-set night. Twenty-five nautical miles to Vounaki, our final destination is so close, four or five hours away. The moon is a few days away from full. Clouds build, surely it must rain before we get there. Mark has handed watch over to me. What he thinks is a sailing vessel was behind us until we made the turn north. It turned too, taking the inside track through the islands closer to the coast. If it’s anyone, it’s Bobby and Mikey, they’re local boys after all. We have eight large lights on our starboard beam. Islands. With massive lights. Gives the movie set picture greater vigour, they’re like spotlights at the edge of a stage. Headsail is out, belly full. Unorthodox, the captain says, but it’s working. We’re sailing again, the wind shifted a little and I alter the sails to compensate. My alterations actually work, I’m delighted I’ve learnt something, sailing home, to land and voyage end. Hallelujah my friends, I should get to see ye again. I dreamt of France. Belfort, not Canet. Mag, Pascale, Alban, Angie. Nico and Ivan, Les Moraines, Ad’s workshop. A melange of a dream. I’ll be visiting before I go back home. It’s on my way. Through the mountains. Hard to think of that now. Easter’s coming, people will be on the move as we try to get home. Land, family, friends, girls. To talk to, to hold, to love. Guitars to play, bikes to cycle, footballs to kick. Four weeks, 1800 miles, new friends and an education. Three men in a tub, rub a dub dub.

0410
Course 359°
Speed 5.3
8 miles to Vounaki.
Time for a snooze
.
0630
Course 000° (Due North)
Speed 0.8
No motor, no sail.
Just woke from the final dream at sea. But why are we stopped?
I dreamt we arrived in Vounaki. The Sunsail base is a massive skyscraper on the marina, a canal bringing the boat into reception. We jump off, Farceur disappears. A few other skippers are hanging around, their actions a little crazy in the posh surrounds. My sea legs have me sliding around the place, bumping into annoyed suits, knocking over things. I had to get out of there, I remember a conversation with Dan, “If you don’t like your dream, try to look at the back of your hand. You can never see it in a dream, and you’ll wake yourself up.” I can feel the mattress against my hand, hear the water lapping against the hull. As the man says, I trigger wakefulness when my hand turns out to be invisible. Why are we stopped? The water is hitting us, we’re not passing through it. I fall back asleep.
Same building, same reception, same thing. I float this time, like a badly inflated helium balloon. I feel the mattress, I look at the back of my hand, I wake up. Still can’t figure out what’s going on, have we anchored somewhere? I fall back asleep.
Same thing again, but this time I know better and get outside. We’re in a pig market. A black pig grabs my hand, the seller shouts “You own him now!” The pig turns into a monkey, I run outside, a gypsy woman spits at me. I figure that maybe I’m dreaming, I look at my hand, I wake up. Still the water sounds strange.
And again. Sleep. Floating around the reception, this time I leave through another door to the resort. A hundred thousand children are playing in synchronisation. I want to find our boat, but they’re all piled high on top of each other, seperated by class. Where the hell is it? It’s been my home! The pig monkey is near, the gypsy spits. I can feel the mattress under me, looking at my hand wakes me again. We’re not moving the way I’m used to. What are the lads up to? I fall back asleep.
This time I figure it out quickly. I’m dreaming. Ok. Where are the powerboats? I find one that looks like the space shuttle. I’m in full control. Of course it starts, and the speed instantly has me airborne. I fly over the resort, the skyscraper, the pig market. I get too much speed and look at the back of my hand, waking up once again with the knowledge that something’s not quite as it should be. And fall asleep.
Straight to the powerboat this time and then I realise I don’t need it. I fly. It’s been a long time since I had a flying dream like this. I fly around this imaginary place until suddenly I lose the ability. Back of my hand, feel the mattress, once again I wake up to disquiet. But fall again into slumber.
I fly. Ambitiously I head north, up the coast, over these mountains. To Milano? To Belfort? Only when I think “To Dublin?” do I lose the magic of flight and plummet to the ground. My hand brings me out into consciousness but I lose it again. Now it’s me, Dan and for some reason, Morgan Freeman. We’re squashed into my cabin, our heads stuffed together in the port quarter. Mr. Freeman is dragging an octopus-type thing out of a pipe in the hull. “They always hide in here”, his familiar tones drawl. With a knife he slices a juicy piece off. “If they’re green, they’re no good. Man but if they’re red, they’re like apple pie”. He sucks the piece off the blade, red juice running down his fingers, a sweet smell reaching us. I can’t believe this, it looks so real. In his rich Kerry brogue Dan exclaims, “You’d better fucking believe it!” But I hear this differently. I look at my hand, and wake up to Mark answering him, “It’s fucking amazing, isn’t it?” Jesus, enough of this, where the fuck are we? I jump out of bed go on deck. It’s still dark. The engine’s off. No sails are out. Mark and Dan look strange. But they’re laughing. It takes me a second. They appear to be clean, Dan’s wearing a shirt. “Look!” Mark points at the plotter. “We’re floating due north at less than a knot. Vounaki is due north. The good ship Farceur, she’s taking us home!”
Mark knows the base in Vounaki. Getting there in the dark is tricky at this time of year because the boats will still be tied up for the winter, lines eveywhere. So they cut the engine and we killed a bit of time. We’d been quiet this last day, savouring the last of it, holding our thoughts. The last few hours before it’s all over. Can’t believe it’s all over. As the day breaks, we see the marina ahead. No skyscrapers here, it looks good for us. As we approach, there’s a gathering on the jetty. We circle to come in from the north side. As we get closer, I can make out some unfamiliar faces amongst the others. One stands out, it must be Dom, the big Caribbean I’d heard so much about. Captain shouts, “We’ll come around, do you want us stern in?” A shout back, “Alongside, alongside, it’s much easier!” They know we’re in bits. Mark had been very attentive this last day, as is his wont on the final stretch. But we’re tired beyond anything. We approach, I throw the line, apologising for the uselessness of the throw. The catcher, Simon, laughs, tells me not to worry. The lines tighten, Farceur is moored. We step off to huge smiles, hugs all round, and cups of Ouzo. Dom and Stefan have a taxi waiting but want to have a drink with Mark before they go. Bobby and Mikey are moored beside us. Ross and Tom look hungover. There are so many yachts here. A girl steps off one. A girl, at last! She comes towards the group with a jug of coffee and a smile. As Helouise pours coffee into my Ouzo I say to her, “If you don’t mind, later on, I really need to talk with you.”

April 2nd 00:45 local time

N               E
Well, what a day April Fool’s day 2012 was. After banging our way through the military area, happily without a hint of submarines, I slept a little and got up five nautical miles from the Corinth canal. Captain briefs us as to how we’re going to moor and we carry it off just about successfully, the slightest crunch from the boat as one of the lines gets pulled a bit tight. We’d passed a tanker that we recognised from the Straits of Kithira, many moons ago, it seems. I should have taken the name down, it was huge. Anchored off an oil refinery, it was the daddy of an armada of tankers.

Land. For a short time. Mark had to go to the canal offices and pay the fee, somewhere around two hundred euros. Dan went to find a shop, we need proper coffee. I finally figured out how to get phone credit through my laser card so I can stop hassling my sister to do it online. She’d forgotten this time, but it is her birthday weekend, after all. Land. Briefly. A bit of stretching, and a hop, skip and jump. Just because I can. It raised the eyebrows of a passing tourist couple. I felt like the cured leper in The Life Of Brian. And nearly twisted my ankle. My muscles are sore from all the bracing, especially in the last while. Even when asleep, you’re using them to stay in the one place. And these are muscles that normally don’t get much use. My festival leg hurts a bit, but my shoulder’s grand.

All done, the Cap’n points out a pilot boat heading out to meet a rustbucket of a tanker holding offshore, “We’ll be following that, where’s Dan?” I photograph the ship as it passes, it’s crew photograph us. A bosomly lady on her stern answers our wave, and we cast off with the precision of a well-oiled machine, Indiana Jones-like flicks of the wrist freeing the lines from the moorings. We’re getting the hang of this boat lark. Finally! And into the canal we follow the ship. Two cafes on either side give us an audience. A girl shouts “Au revoir!” I shout “See yis later!” in me best Dublinese. Another girl, “Buongiorno!” Christ, they sound lovely. I haven’t talked to a girl face to face in over a month, except for waitresses and shop assistants. I have to get off this boat soon.

Another spellbinding experience to add to our ample list. The wind buffets us as we pass through this man made gap in the earth. At the highest point, some seventy metres above, we pass under a couple of bridges. “Hello!” echoes up to a few folk waving down to us. A platform of sorts is under the second bridge, a line looping down slightly from it. “Are they painting it?” one of the lads asks. I can see a few people on the platform. There’s no painting going on. “It’s a bungee rope, someone’s going to jump off.” The old boys are disbelieving for a second, but yeah, of course, it’s a perfect spot. We pass underneath and I get Mark’s camera ready to film. I can see the poor bastard with the harness on. The idea of it is alien to me. If on land, don’t jump off! I’ve never done a bungee jump and I would do it but not after too much time at sea, I don’t feel that the two ideas mix. But then again maybe that’s a good reason to do it. Maybe. The guy beside him shouts to us, “One minute!” I give thumbs up, the victim prepares, and jumps. What a sight. Unfortunately they probably had to wait for us to pass, it would have been cool to see this body hurtling towards the water with the canal walls at either side from right underneath it. All the same, we get a fine view. Unexpected, the Captain can’t believe it. Corinth Canal Bungee from the good boat Farceur.

On we continue following this ship that barely fits through, fighting the turbulence the walls create. It’s a credit to the ship ahead and the tug towing it for keeping their track. It’s a strange place. They tried to build it a long time ago, it seems, but was finally done in the 18th century, I think. And how many died in such a construction, just to let us take a shortcut? It’s peculiar, passing through a gap in the earth, the joining of two seas, a remarkable feat. Hawks scream overhead, seagulls hold their perch. One, responding to my “Howaya!” with a haughty glare. The west gate approaches, the onlookers here less generous as we are holding up a nice line of traffic on either side. One girl sitting on a rock waves back, her companions don’t. Thanks, girl, it’s always appreciated.

“Bollox!” The Captain announces our arrival into the Corinth Gulf. There’s no shelter, a small harbour with no invitation to stay. We have twenty knots of westerly wind. Slap slap bang on the hull as we hug the coastline to try and avoid the worst of it. I see a car on the cliff above us, it’s front end smashed in, it had left the road somewhere above it. I had to scan it with binoculars, maybe it had just happened, maybe no one else had seen it. I couldn’t see anybody. Or any body. Perhaps a lucky escape, it had obviously come from a height but had caught where it was and hadn’t plummeted into the sea, without a handy bungee cord. It’s a bit creepy to see this. And the wind’s steadily increasing. We’re searching the maps for cover, somewhere sheltered. We’re at the east end of this long Gulf, in the southern bay, smaller than the main bay to our north. The wind has turned into an easterly, making heading east difficult, and we don’t have much to our west, it’s a hundred metres to the beach. There’s a lake on the headland, it looks perfect if we get in there. An intriguing place, Vouliagmeni Lake, hidden behind the headland looking like serenity herself from our wilder perspective. We are a couple of hundred meters out from the channel, it’s at sea level, this lake, but bears no resemblance to our sea. We’re being happily tossed about at this stage, and we can see the calm flat waters through the channel. It looks too small, too risky. A bar is beside it. Land, shelter and a beer. So close, but so far away. It may as well be Canet, goddamn it.

The sea is rougher now, the wind ever increasing. Four people, early season tourists themselves, appear by the bar and wave to us with what I feel to be sympathy. It probably looks bad to them, we’re moving a lot, but we wave back with smiles, and envy. We have to move on, there’s no chance of shelter here. Our only place to go being around this headland and across the gulf proper to the northern shore, dotted with bays and showing some anchorage spots. Dolphins appear, playing in the rough seas. Common dolphins again, we haven’t seen any of these since our approach to Lipari, it’s been all bottlenose since. They smaller, the common ones, faster and seem to be loving the high seas. And they seem to like greeting us, I wonder if they think we’re enjoying it as much as they are. We prepare to turn starboard, “It’s going to get bumpy!” Yes, indeed. Bumpy. Motoring with a touch of headsail we power northwards to the promise of shelter, aiming for a spot straight across. I described the sea in the Aegean as memerising once, I believe. That was a couple of days ago when we got our first big wind. This wind is bigger, this sea is bigger. And it’s greener. A Rolls Royce green. Dark and dangerous, with turquoise tips as the breaking edge captures the sunlight. I can’t take my eyes off it save for the bay that we slowly creep towards. A decision has to be made, the Captain consults his crew, “Look at where we’re going, I’m not sure about it, will we get any shelter there? And I’m not happy about the banging this boat is getting. I think we need to change course, head for the next bay.” Further east, this bay is the last in the gulf. Our last chance. To not find shelter there would mean staying out in this all night, heading into the wind, grinning and bearing it but we’re near our limits, myself and Dan, at least. I check the wind gauge during a lull. Thirty two knots, a gust to thirty six before I return to a safer place on the weather side. Hanging on, I try to photograph it, just a little. The waves look smaller through the viewfinder. Decision made, we turn to starboard and the motion eases a little. More dolphins join us. One springs straight out of a wave on our beam as we’re in the trough. It’s like one coming out of an upright wall, considering our angle. Next life, I want to be a dolphin, they have the right idea. They have it better than even the Turks. They’ll cheer you up, no matter what sort of state you’re in. I have to say though, this rough sea was easier than the first one. I didn’t hide under the spray hood. I wasn’t scared. We’re tired, in good spirits but strained somewhat. We head for shelter in Kolpos Domvrenis.

0410 hours
38 12.963N 022 56.383E
Anchored. Speed 0.0knot
Anchor watch had been cancelled, so I slept some with the plan to wake at 4am and leave with the first light. I wake at 0357 with the changing of the wind, eyes open from a dream that has been eluding my memory all this time but was a constant when I got enough hours sleep. I think all is resolved, she is happy. I daren’t speak any more of it. The wind has come around, from due west to north. Checking the plotter, it’s at eighteen knots, starting to howl a little. We’ll make progress today. The captain’s up. I sat and smoked a ciggie in the saloon whilst he slept. It was in a book called “Always Forward”, the best way to wake someone. They smell the smoke, but they know it’s not them, so it triggers consciousness. Works very well, I must say.

At midnight I had woken for my watch and it was too quiet. I went on deck with my knife at the ready. Where was everyone? An overreaction maybe, the knife, but considering the dream and our location in reality, I forgive myself easily. The GPS showed our last movements, the pattern we made when anchoring. We hadn’t shifted, just turned to a forty five degree angle. Makes perfect sense. I broke the cardinal rule this once. Never go for’ard on watch whilst alone. Stay in the cockpit at all times. Anchored here, it felt okay to do. I checked the chain, it was tight, heading straight down as it should. Secure. We’d dropped the whole chain down, forty metres at least. It held fast. We need to get out of this strange place in the world. Calm now, Mark awoke to tell me that anchor watch was canceled, I could sleep. Soon we go west to Vounaki. Off this boat. To land and all it’s promises. And to keep my own. Kalabatic wind, coming down the mountain. We’ll make progress today.

1023 38°15.168N 022°30.353E
SOG 5.5kt
Wind 1.8
Course 283°
One point eight knots of wind. What a difference a day makes. It’s flitted around before finally deciding that she’s a northerly, then changed again as I write. I’ve slept for a while, had a Chinese cup of soup from France with a Swedish name. No wonder my body’s digestive system is a mess, it doesn’t know where on earth it is! Snow capped mountains to our north and south, and we’re putting on suncream. Are we really here? After the events of yesterday?

We had been heading for shelter in Kolpos Antikiras but to continue in that direction was putting the boat and us in severe danger. The battering was too much, if something breaks, we’re in a whole lot of trouble. And there’s no race on here. We have to deliver this boat, intact in all her glory. So we changed tack towards the most easterly bay. There’s a town on it’s eastern shore, we glimpse a possibly abandoned industrial quay wall to port as we enter the bay past a flotilla of fish farms. The plotter show a couple of anchoring possibilities. The town is a no go, the wind making shelter unrealistic there. We head for the first, a small one in the lee of a small dinosaur shaped island. Darkness is nearly with us, we are exhausted, the boat keeps banging up and down. On and on we struggle as the sun loses it’s influence on the day. Reaching the lee-side of this peculiar island, I can’t help feeling that we’re not welcome here. The beach is tiny, barely existing. The rocks look like the grumpy old guys from The Muppet Show. Captain says there’s not enough room to anchor, the seabed shelving off quickly. Regretfully, we round the island and turn into the wind, making three knots against it. Three knots, bang, bang, bang.

A cove on the starboard side comes into view. A custom house is labelled on the plotter, there’s lights from a couple of buildings indicating some life. We head towards this possible honey pot of shelter. As we near, the dusk reveals an assortment of small boats, fishing vessel and dinghies moored to a small quay wall with a slipway to it’s side. A tavern is visible now, people coming to the door as this grand yacht suddenly appears before them. I’m at the bow, anchor ready. We drop it but the depth suddenly goes from four to twenty metres and it doesn’t hold. Moving closer to shore, the Captain shouts to go again just as a local starts hollering at us. The anchor catches in the bow, the chain spilling into the well, not the sea as should be the case. I have to lean around and kick it off just as it’s kicking off onshore. A lot of shouting now, pointing, flailing of arms. We pause. I shout “No comprendo!” at the annoyed sounding Greek. Furious even, he’s freaking out but we’ve no idea what he means. Is he indicating their own lines that we could damage or is he telling us to come in closer? It can’t be deep enough for us there. I figure that shouting in English is not a good idea, the same for French. Spanish sailors have a tough reputation so I shout, “Donde podemos vamos! Pa la ou pa ka! No lo se!!” (Where can we go, this way or that, I don’t know!) Somewhere in the back of my mind I find it hilarious that I’m using this expression here, one I learned on the streets of Granada in southern Spain. But it’s not funny, Mark orders the anchor lifted, the guy on land seems to calm down, a more conciliatory tone to his shouting, but we’re pulling away. “Sorry Stuart, but I don’t know what the fuck he’s saying.” The Captain’s dead right, that place could have been a hoot, or we could have been shot. We have one more place to try to find anchor, we head back out into the dark and the howling, honking wind.

The plotter shows shallow water to the west, on the other side of the dock we’d seen coming into the bay. Our last hope, it’s obscured from our view until we round an island. “Jesus Christ!” I agree with Mark. This is not expected at all. This seemingly abandoned place with a rusty derrick towering over the rough sea is suddenly lit up. A massive cargo ship is moored there, it’s lights showing off the cliff edge that seems to surround it’s bow. More comes in to view. A car, a security gate, a road heading up the mountainside, blasted out of it’s rock. We motor at a forty five degree angle to the quay, it being far to big for us to attempt mooring. Our spot is around the other side of it. Torch-lights from the dock flash at us, as if to motion us in. We’re heading into pitch darkness, the lights are a distraction. More flashlights, and a car races towards the corner we’ll pass closest to, it’s headlights serving only to light up the haze across our bow. BEEP BEEP BEEP! The GPS loses signal, Once again not following at the vital moment. And we’re aware of fish farms in the area, if we were to hit one… Skipper shouts, “Is there anything in my way? Am I heading towards anything?” I’m already running as Dan hands me a torch. Like a paratrooper, I quickly make it to the bow while keeping very low to the deck. I grab the headsail, pointing the torch into the dark, my eyes adjusting. I shine the flashlight quickly left and right and back again. I can see nothing. Shielding my eyes from the glare of that car’s lights to starboard I stare into the black, eventually making out water ahead, no obstructions. Lights from another car arc across the sky as what I imagine to be our friend from the last attempt at anchoring follows us to what end I don’t know. Land approaches fast. Is it a hundred feet or fifteen feet away. My mind is racing from the insanity of it all. What the hell is this place? Where in the world have we found ourselves now? One side of my brain is trying to come to grips with it, furiously trying to figure out how I ended up in this mess. The other side is loving it. It’s like the books I used to read as a kid. I’m hanging off the bow of a boat bouncing towards land, getting close, close, close. Is it there? How big are those rocks? Now! We’re close enough. I shine the torch back, hear a shout as we slow and I drop the anchor. Thirty metres of chain pour into four metres of sea. Mark joins me and ties it off in a way to protect the hull. We pause for breath. The wind fights the boat, it’s like a rodeo bronco underneath us. The car has turned to face us, the other vehicle having gone back up the hill and over the headland. We seemed to have caused some fuss in our attempt to find shelter. We wait, checking the GPS. It’ll tell us if we’re holding steady.

The anchor is designed to go into the sand. As the chain pulls it along the seabed, it should hold. The rest of the chain lays along the seabed, only rising when it reaches the boat’s position. The combined weight should hold her, but in these conditions we have to be careful. The buffering is still too much and we struggle to tie up the mainsail, it’s salty zip hindering us. People on shore shine torches towards us, and into the sea close to them. It’s such a strange place, and after such a day, my head is in a strange place. And now I can smell bacon. Bacon? Mr. Dan Doody, quite the legend, has a fry on. He cooks in stressful situations. During this saga, he’s been quietly preparing the evening’s meal. We’re satisfied that we’re anchored and head below, laughing at the craziness of it. Just because thing’s have turned for the worst, our short epilogue with Farceur containing more drama than all the time on Eve, doesn’t mean we eat in any less style.

Food, a beautiful beer (a rare treat at sea), checking all the while our line to the seabed, our safety chain. Another car appears, more people with flashlights move down the shore towards us, around this shallow cove. Where are we? Is this a government zone? Or owned by one of those Greek industrial magnates? Are we in danger? To remote to be helped by anyone but these people? Can we trust them? They seem to be searching for something along the shoreline. Bodies? Contraband? Is this a smuggler’s haven? Are they expecting someone? With all these NATO radio broadcasts going on could we be defined as acting suspiciously? Could they be defined the same? Will a security boat turn up at our side? Will swarthy Greek with Turkish knives show up too? We’re so tired. What’ll we do if someone shows up?” I ask the Captain. “Offer them a cup of tea”, he smiles, “diplomacy, ya know!”

April 1st 2012 0517 local time

Oh what am fool am I. hehe A tired fool, me. So tired. Again. Up at 0300 for watch. Woke up automatically fifteen minutes before we were passing south of the shipping lane out of Athens. Ships everywhere. Skipper was up, pointed out a vessel on the port bow gradually closing in with their stsrboard light showing. We slowed to let it pass, Mark went below. I checked the plotter and looked again to see the port light of this ship. It had turned. Revs up to two thousand and let the big fella pass behind us. No drama after that, just keeping an eye on a couple of cruise ships, a fishing vessel, and after a while a large ferry passed our bow heading north.
Most likely this will be the penultimate watch. I thank all the gods. I’m writing to stay awake, so wrecked. Dreamt I was home and we all lived in our cars. Mexicans in a big one crashed into our couch. It’s like that.

NOT FOLLOWING. I’d better reset the goddamn plotter. The last time it lost the satellite we were in the bay to anchor on our first night out of Turkey. In the dark, in a bay, close to shore, we lose the plot. No GPS when we really needed it. Deep breaths, beep beep beep, reset!

0550
37°36’33”N 023°33’52”
Speed 5.1 knots
Wind 10kt on our bow
Course 298°
Heading for waypoint at 37°40.082N 023°25.384E with Nicos Alvina to the north, Methana to south. Ship to port, 190° relative for the last twenty minutes. This is a collision course, we’re heading for the same point. I’d better wake the Cap’n.

0640 It goes to show that you can’t trust the big ship captains. I got Mark up a bit early, we were getting too close to the ship to our port. Faster than us, we were way ahead but it was catching as we closed in on a big gap between the two islands. We slowed right down, the ship crossed our bow, then turned to port and crossed again, heading off southwest. So why did it have to come across our path. A mystery. Just don’t trust those skippers, who knows who they are. Well paid, but, well?

0830 We cut through the shallow gap at 37°43.789N 023°24’47”E,  heading northwest towards what is marked on the map as a submarine/mine laying training area. The water is shallower here, making the waves shorter and sharper. With the wind still on the bow, we’re banging up and down the whole time. Mark hates the banging, but I don’t mind it. Not yet, at least. I suspect I’ll learn to hate it, gven the chance. Banging headwind, submarine warnings, mind boggling. We’re too wrecked for this, we must keep watch for surfacing submarines. Oh come on.
A pair of dolphins approach us, looking like torpedoes. We’re too slow for them. No fun, they disappear. I think they were bottlenoses again. Nice to know there’s plenty of them around. Four islands to the north look like sleepng dinosaurs, the easterly one more lika a cute puppy. We turn slightly northwards through this military area. Let sleepng dogs lie, I don’t see any periscopes. We do see a couple of oblong orange buoys, though. Mine markers? Surely not, what sort of practise would that be? In war, they don’t mark them.

Turkish coffee and Italian biscuits for brekkie. That coffee would put hair on your teeth. I developed a taste for it in Turkey but out here I wince at the smell of it and need a bucketful of sugar to drink it on down.  We curve our way, the Corinth Canal awaits. All camera battery power is being saved for this, possibly the last great wonder of our voyage.

31 March 2012

Anchored at 36°52’57” 025°55’20”

0740 Local sunrise over the hill. Dan cooks a fry, wind’s dropped, we head towards Corinth today.

0810 Up anchor, course 290° to waypoint at 36°51’55” 025°37’15” From Nicos Amorgos with Nicos Honousa to the north, towards Nicos Naxos through the gap between Nicos Skhoinousa to the south and Nicos Koufonisos to the north. Greek islands, for sure.

We left the bay we found shelter in through the big exit, rather than taking the small entrance we’d shuffled over yesterday. A deep breath, we only had two metres under us. Clenched buttocks time.

1410

36°55’144N 025°12’960E

Course 275°T, speed 5.5kts

A glassy sea once again. We ate pasta and slept well last night. Up at dawn to calmness in our little place in the world. Caught lovely wind which brought us towards Nicos Naxos and it’s outlying islands where the wind shifted from starboard to port and back again. Now it’s on our bow, not even five knots. A lazy day, thank god. The men have gone below, heads down for a while. The sun shines, there’s a nice swell in the ocean,  it’s a relaxing time. More bottlenose dolphins passed by a while ago. I caught a quick glimpse as one our bow heading in the opposite direction blew air out it’s spout as the fin cut through the sea’s surface. I watch for something, this sea is so perfect, anything that splits the skin is immediately visible. Could we be blessed with another show?

It matters not, we’ve seen so much, so many wonders. Calm sea, calm minds, calm at last. On to the Corinth Canal we cruise. Nicos Paros to the north, Ios Sikinos and Fulgandos to the south. Out next waypoint is 36°59’150N, 024°57’088E, at the southwest tip of Nicos Stronvilo, which has Nicos Dhespotiko to it’s northeast. I’ll have to look that one up for sure, how does an island get such a name? It looks somewhat ominous, too. Despots, those in charge, the greedy, the bankers, the politicians, bring them all here, let them fight amongst themselves without dragging us into it. The illusion of riches, the uselessness of it all. Yalcin’s dad in Fethiye has the right idea. And those in Turgutreis. The shopkeepers, the bar owners, the souped-up Lada drivers, they have it good. The Turks impressed me, top quality food, especially the meat. Great traditional munchies equalled by their own modern packaged goods. We have a posh biscuit cupboard now!

1620 Changed course to 317° to take a shortcut between Nicos Dhespotiko and Strongylo, holding our breaths a bit, me and Dan. The Cap’n is asleep, should we nip through this gap? I’m unsure, Dan reckons it’s cool. The depth gauge shoots up to eight metres before going down again, taking a bit longer to decrease, somewhat uncomfortably slow. And back to deeper waters, bringing us to a course of 305°, heading for the next waypoint south of Nicos Kithnos, where we’ll pass to the east of Nicos Kamaris and Nicos Serifus.

March 30th 2012 EPILOGUE:

(My little sister’s birthday.)

And so ends the ballad of Adam and Eve, we just have the simple task of delivering a different boat from here to Vounaki in Greece. It’s a short run compared to our marathon crossing from France. An epic journey, by all accounts. Many deliveries go to Croatia or Vounaki, making ours one of the longest you can do in the Mediterranean, and it’s rare to get another job that brings you in the direction of home. Normally, we’d now be looking for flights out of here. So, what to say about Turkey? What a place. A hit and run visit, we stayed in Fethiye less than twenty four hours, swapped our boat for a van, headed across a mountain range, and were assigned a new sailing vessel. Farceur, registered in Cannes. Monsieur Farceur to you.

Our last stint on Eve carried us across the bay into the marina at Fethiya. Rain threatened but held off, I scanned the quayside for Sunsail boats through the binoculars. A couple of lads were walking out towards the end of a pontoon. Two I didn’t know, but the other? “Mark, that looks like Luca, they’re there already.” “That confounded Dutchman!” They had been four miles ahead of us in the bay as we stopped to eat, and Pete had thought that we were already in the marina. All we had to do was scan the horizon ahead but with land as a backdrop, it’s not so easy to spot a sail. They had been six miles out, not six hours, a simple misunderstanding? We’re all tired.

I ring home. I sound tired to myself. Land is once again confusing. The showers are cold, until a kind soul points out another block that still has some warm water. Adam’s crew headed into town, and I leave Mark and Dan onboard Eve to go and find them, ending up in the fish market, a market with a lot of restaurants around it. Each place has a guy outside it, hassling me to go in and eat. “You want good food, sir?” I didn’t know what I wanted. It was all too much, too many things going on, “I’m just looking for my friends…” I want them to leave me alone. “You make good friends here, sir, come in, come in.” I look to escape and see a small place, just a kitchen with a few tables and chairs outside it. There’s a guy sitting there, no one is hustling business outside it. I sit down, “Could I just get a cold beer please?” I start chatting to Yalcin Oztoklu, it’s nice to talk to a different soul. Eventually he asks if I’m hungry. Well, he tells me I look hungry and tired. I agree and order everything he has that has no meat. Sorry Dan, but I need some veggie food. The food is gorgeous, served with the biggest stack of bread ever. Nearly a whole loaf, so fresh. I start to feel more normal. Yalcin’s family arrive to eat themselves, their hospitality is impressive, we talk away over a couple of beers. They have just opened for the summer season, I’m their second customer. The small place earns them enough to get them through the winter months. As I leave, I tell the father, “You sir, are a rich man.” His smile says it all.

Heading back to the boat, I meet the other crews, the English lads. Tom and Ross I had met when we docked, and Mikey introduced himself with a handshake, “Anywhere here have a pool table?” I had just passed a pool hall. We went for a beer and fell back to the boats hours later, my Irishness delighted that my eye (and luck) was in on the table. They finally beat me after getting me too drunk to stand. We haggled with the landlord over the last round. Good people. I like this place. I didn’t like the following morning’s hangover, but sure none of us did. We had to clean the boat but first I had a little mission to carry out.

They do a spicy pancake in Turkey. Along with their strange coffee, it’d put hairs on the inside of your chest. I went back to the fish market and Oztoklu’s restaurant. Yalcon had offered to help me find a guitar, but I didn’t think we’d have the time so my breakfast visit was purely to say goodbye. With my resolve strengthened by more fine food, we left for the guitar shop. It had moved. But the locals were so helpful, we found it’s relocation quickly. With some wonderful haggling, I bought a cheap Chinese-built Spanish guitar. At last, a guitar. At last! I ran back to Eve. Cleaning her was tough. The sun was beating down, we were all in bits. Turkish customs came on board and we had to even give them the serial number on the ship’s stereo, as each item is being imported. “Dont’t forget Lisa!” We nearly left the CD in the machine. And of course we had to remove Eve’s name, what a shame. The little stocky marina guy, a pain in the ass, stuck on her new moniker, it looked like it spelt “garden” in Turkish. Dan couldn’t believe it, “We’ve brought her to the garden of Eden, alright!” We cleaned as much as possible and clambered aboard a maxi bus to bring us to our new destination, a four hour drive, we’re told. Mark, Dan and I, Eve’s crew. Peter, Fred and Luca, Adam’s. Ross and Tom, who we’d heard on the radio coming from Rhodes, and Mikey and Bobby (am I forgetting anyone here?), both Skippers, sharing a delivery. After a few weeks at sea level, we’re brought through a mountain pass at six hundred and seventy metres. The road is barely built in places, the scenery is amazing. I played guitar, the lads dozed. Not since I was working with Mark touring a band around Ireland had I played a guitar in a van traveling throughout the mountains. I had a bunch of melodies in my head from one of the mornings at sea, the time I stayed up for the sunrise. I had eventually gone below but was unable to sleep with all the ideas. I had sung the tunes into my camera, with the engine rattling away beside me. These are the first tunes I’ve written without an instrument to hand. Now I’m so happy to play them. Fred pays particular attention, Bobby slags off my voice, Pete acts as tour guide. “So they climbed that mountain but when they got to the top, it wasn’t cocaine!” Luca likes one of the tunes above others. The English lads chill, we all do. Such a mellow journey. Just after dark we arrive in Turgutreis and board our new boat. Farceur, the epilogue begins.

The Turks are lovely, great people. I’ve read that they make the best friends and the worst enemies. I would hate to have them add an enemy, they are warm and friendly beyond my expectations. A couple of days eating great food, trying some disgusting salted drinks, beating the lads at pool, buying cheap bits for those at home and we’re off again. It seems we stay there much longer but on Thursday the 29th at noon or so we cast off. And we sail. Wonderful wind. We head west-south-west to avoid banging straight into it and anchor at Analipsis on Nicos Palantiaia, a name I remember from our way here. The clothes line town that smiled at us smiles again as under cover of darkness we anchor in a sheltering bay. Food and wine and I play the guitar for hours. Mark and I end up sitting in the saloon chatting. I go to bed and instantly dream of Mark and I sitting in the saloon chatting. Jesus. Dreams. Sleep. I don’t know what sleep really is anymore, all I know is that I haven’t had enough in weeks. I’ve moved into another world. I’d buy sleep if I could afford it.

(29th March anchored at 36°34’30”N 026°23’44”E)

Of course we wake up a little hungover and faff about a bit before upping anchor. Mark gave me the helm to steer her out of the bay, we turned east again and headed north along the island’s rocky coast. I went below after a while for a nap and woke up lying more on my cabin wall than my bunk. It feels like I’m in a washing machine. I can see the sea through the hatch on the deck side, a view I haven’t had yet. Getting my gear on is ridiculously difficult, I go above and find skipper at the helm, grinning a little grin, “It’s fuckin’ mad out here!” Oh yeah, now this is wind. A lively breeze we have today. High twenties gusting to high thirties. About fifty five kilometers an hour, on average. Farceur is the same model boat as Eve, a thirty-six footer. “So, Mark, are THOSE big waves?” A firm nod with a twinkle in his eye. Grin and bear it. Dan had gone below when we went airborne the first time. That was what had got me on deck, I wanted to see this. I stayed hiding under the spray hood. The Captain looks forward, “See that headland? We’ll find shelter there.” I twist and see a distant island, Nicos Amorgos, the cliffs on it’s eastern headland beckoning us, but still very far away. This boat has a few more features than Eve, including hand rails along the gangway. I hang on tight, glad of the strength in my hands from carrying musical equipment in and out of places. The sea is mesmerizing. And it’s best to see what size of wave is coming, to anticipate the boat’s movement. I film as much as possible, Mark steers as much as possible. It’s tough but, bit by bit, the massive headland grows nearer. As we near the land, the wind’s ferocity increases. We hit nine knots. It feels like the sound barrier. The boat bounces along, slipping in and out of control, pushing to port and fighting back to starboard. We can see the calm sea ahead, it’s been hours now, we need to reach it soon lest we break something, we’re so close. An almighty gust hits us, ripping a lifebelt off it’s moorings, pushing the sails towards the water, tilting the boat over, over, over. An unspeakable angle.

And then calm. We have reached the lee of the land. She rights herself and suddenly we’re safe. Silently we look at each other. Jesus. My phone beeps. I check the text. It’s from Nina “Hey sailor! How’s the adventure going?” I show it to Mark, “Look man, contact from the outside world, we’re still alive!” We both thank you, Nina, we weren’t sure there for a while. We laugh a little laugh. Phew, it was tough going. Not as terrifying as my early watches, I’m used to this now. I trust the boat, I trust the Captain, I trust my own grip. But I had no time for terror. Time enough for fear, to be constantly aware of my footing, positioning, all muscles in use, pushing myself against the deck, holding on. Almost like climbing,  utilizing the three points of contact rule. I photographed as much as I could, although it was much more difficult. Maybe I should have lashed myself to the mast.

As we head west along the north cliffs towards an anchoring spot, the sea rears again, head on waves, banging us up and down. I write lyrics, they come to me and I cannot ignore them. That song from nearly twenty years ago, written in my first flat on Francis Street, but never with lyrics I was happy with. Now maybe I have the right to write a seafaring tune of love and chaos, the promise of land and the risks on the sea, the control we so lack at times when nature smiles and says hello.

March 26th 2012

0537 GMT+2 (We think. Has daylight saving come in yet? What time is it at home? What time zone are we in? Really, we’re clueless)
36°30’849N 27°55’296E
Speed 5.2 knots, course 85°T

The first glimpse I have of Turkey is the lighthouse at Dalisa Yasak. With the height of it we can see it from a great distance, even allowing for the curvature of the earth. As we pass the reassuring flash of Nicos Sesklio’s unwavering beacon to those on the sea, the Rhodes channel opens up to us. Rhodes and mainland Turkey are shrouded in cloud, but the sky above us is clear. As the day brightens from night I can discern the shape of our destination from the cloud. It had been a busy night, but I had missed it all. Slept for nearly six hours, dreaming of Lyndsay who was also Meli and Liz, with Skinny Marky who was a serial killer. Lynds was in cahoots with him. It was my first nightmare at sea, I thought I was going to die. On waking, I wasn’t convinced otherwise. I was in the act of slipping out of my sleeping bag, the blanket long fallen away from me. We had the same conditions as the first twenty four hours of this epic trip. Rolling seas from astern pitching Eve from side to side, making things difficult to manage. I stayed asleep longer than I thought. When I finally decided that enough was enough, to my surprise it was already 0300, time for my watch. Mark was still up, we had made great progress. It’s amazing, the difference an extra knot or two can make. Without wind we average five and a half knots, with, it goes to seven and more, giving us an extra fifty percent. We have cruised so much of this voyage. So unusual. Usually it’s honking at this time of year. I say it once again, we are blessed. As my watch begins, I feel the sea quieten. The wind speed plummets downwards. I watch it drop from eight to four and a half in as many seconds. We pass Greece’s last headland and the Captain can relax and get some sleep. We’ll be on land this afternoon. No big rush. We’ll savour our last little time with Eve.

We’ve crossed into Turkish waters as I write this. The cloud bank is now further away, towards Syria, Irag, the volatile middle east. It’s been a while now since Pylos, anything could be happening but we’ve seen no evidence of impending war. Not on an international level. It would be nice to know that they’ve calmed themselves down in the large country that would be our next port of call if this odyssey were to continue eastwards. At Göcek we stop, wait, change boats and head back west. Last leg, just as we are getting used to life here, Dan and I, we’ll finish. A journey for sure, in every way. Some voyage!

0650
There’s no sign of Adam. We lost them yesterday afternoon onto evening. Possibly it was their mast light we could see as it got dark and we looked for the lighthouse at Vrak, Kandelioussa, back at 26°57′ east. That was when I went below to sleep. Pete had been on the radio at around three o’clock yesterday afternoon. He had his engine up to twenty two hundred RPM, burning fuel with impatience. The skippers seem to want to finish the job, the closer we get, but it’s interesting to watch Mark get more attentive at this late stage. Just like they say that most car accidents happen within five hundred metres of home, when the driver’s attention is low as they relax, switch off, turn on their autopilot. Mark is switched on even more than usual. We’ve been in good hands on this trip. A wealth of experience. I was’t sure if I’d be up for doing this again. Or the ultimate delivery, the transatlantic. Now I know I’d love it. We’ve had it so easy on this one, I couldn’t turn down the challenge of heading along the trade winds to Central or South America. We’ll see, as ever.

I’ve let the men sleep through, they’ll arise soon anough. We have some wind, I’d love to let the headsail out but I’m not sure if I should so I won’t. Loads more to learn, me, before I can call myself Able Seaman Doyle. I still think in terms of aircraft jargon, but I’m improving. I should try for a pilot’s license, having always wanted to fly. I guess it must be similar enough, the oneness with everything, the reliance on the whims of nature and your experience of it. The stillness, the calm the time for thought and then the chaos and need for split second reactions to keep control over whatever vessel you may be manning.
Things cross your mind out here and then immediately the thought is gone. The subconscious rises to the fore, it’s a mad world. But less mad than many lives on land. The financial world, media, industries run by at best unthinking idiots and at worst, psychopaths. If there’s change afoot, lets hope it comes soon enough. There is always hope. And yes, Stuart, philosophising out here is somewhat ridiculous. I’ll roll a smoke.

0800
And all of a sudden, wind again! Out with the Genoa, down with the revs and we’re getting six and a half knots out of our girl. We hear Peter talking with another skipper coming out of Rhodes harbour to our south, another Sunsail vessel, we’re all on the last leg. Wonderful. Eve’s showing off as we count down the miles. It’s emotional, man! A wee pod of delivery boats heading for dock. Tonight’s going to be a hoot. Land once again, this time no euros, but Turkish Lira. Before all that, it’s all about Eve. Sail on you little beauty!

0930 36°32’871N 28°23’937E
NATO security warning was just on the radio. We switched to channel seventy two and listened to a message “for the protection of all mariners”. Any suspicious activity should be reported to info@shipping.nato.int, an email address I would never have imagined existing. Perhaps it’s time now to fly our French flag. We’ve been sailing incognito all the way across the Mediterranean. We are from nowhere, is that considered suspicious? Three half crazy paddies on an unnamed boat, are we somewhat like a car driving all this way with no registration? We are just a number, officially, eight one two, or “the 8:12 to Eden”, as Dan put it.

1200
The lighthouse is where is should be. Good. The sea rolls, propelling us towards it. Our autopilot is working overtime to keep us on course. It freaked out earlier, lost the plot, quite literally. It’s tough to steer in those conditions. Waves come in from astern, Eve is lifted by them and surfs down into the trough, dramatically rolling from side to side at the waves’ convenience. Dan prepares an omelette for when we reach the bay. Another hour, then we’ll reach shelter, drop the mainsail, and use the Genoa to scoot across. Adam must be ahead, possibly with the two other boats out of Rhodes. Perfect. We represent our bosses well. It’ll look good, us all coming in together. The two others had left France at least a week before us, as we hadn’t met them in our overlong stay there. There was no plan to arrive at the same time, a nice coincidence. All we have to do is get there without incident. I’d pray to the Turkish God of the sea if only I knew who he or she is. I’ve got a feeling we’ll be alright, but no slacking at this late stage. We’re nearly home. Turkey beckons with massive thunderheads building along the coastline. We’ve had no rain but for the pitter-patter shower the last night in Pilos. A rare sound indeed, these last weeks. We might get wet before we make land. If no then, surely soon after. Big clouds, not at all annoying. I won’t mind, we could do with a little rain, as could the whole region from here across to Gibraltar. Rain. I never thought I would welcome the idea so much. All three of us knocked the ashtray over this morning. Eve needs another wash. Whether it will be by hose or rain, we’ll see. And we’ll see what I think of the idea of rain when or if it happens.

1420 36°36’8N 028°55’3E
Gocek Bay. Or Fethiye Bay? Consulting our almanac it seems I was wrong, Fethiye is larger. We are crossing from the twin heads at the western point, flying the French flag after lunching on another of Dan’s magnificent omelettes. And this wonderful day, our last stretch, is made all the funnier for during the night we have somehow overtaken Adam. It must have been whilst I was sleeping. The last I saw of them was a tiny dot on the horizon ahead of us. Surely we can’t have passed them? Just before lunch, Mark rang Pete, “Yes Peter, where are you? We are in the bay about to have lunch.” “How did you get past me? We’re six hours out!” It was all our skipper needed to know, he’s delighted. The bay is about ten miles across, we’re way ahead of them. But how can this be possible? Is Peter fooling us? He must have gone to Rhodes, or have taken the southern part of the channel. We haven’t seen a sailing vessel since daybreak. I would know, I’ve been up since three this morning. No sign, no nada. The Cap’n sure has a pep in his step, a little grin skirting his face. This was never a race but of course there is a little friendly rivalry. The same exists between me and Luca, I must admit. So I’m grinning too. But how did we do it? It’s nothing to do with me, I was asleep. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

From the snow-capped mountains of the Pyrenees to the equal, in fact, more impressive mountains here.  Over 1,400 nautical miles in two weeks. It feels like two months. Or years, even. Big thunder booms out across the bay. We’re due rain, I believe we’ll get it. Hopefully it will wait until we’re moored. Hopefully. One last request to the gods?

25th March 2012

0700 GMT+1

Sunrise over Santorini. Dan woke me slightly early, eight miles east of the islands. A red ruby crimson sun rose over the northern headland. As red as the blood in my veins. So beautiful, in every way. I can’t help thinking of the bang this place must have made when it blew up so so long ago. A tsunami wiped out the Minoan civilisation on the islands south of here. Buildings cling to the hilltops, roads zig zag their way up from the small access points along the shoreline. There’s no harbour here. Plans exist to build a marina but the current instructions are not to leave yachts unattended. If the north wind blows, the boat may be gone. It’s a peaceful morning for my peaceful soul. Sheerwaters skim the water’s surface, remarkable birds they are, I could watch them all day.

1140 GMT+2
36°30’073N 25°50’604E
Heading due east at 5.5 knots. A bit of annoying cloud is called for, now that the morning’s clouds are gone and the sun beats down again. Eve is a cleaner girl now. We spent the early morning making her presentable to and over on Tuesday in Turkey. I think it’s Tuesday, we haven’t been sure of the day in a while now. The date, yes, but the day? We barely know what the real time is. Confusion reigns. We hear that we aren’t going to Gocek, but another place in the same bay, Fethiya, five kilometres east. It might suit us better, Gocek sounds posh and we certainly aren’t. The promises of showers and restaurants beckon. Not that we’ve been eating badly but jesus a good shower would be wonderful. I showered in Pilos with a litre and a half of sun warmed water. Not altogether bad but a real good wash is necessary. I’ve my sleeping bag on deck. Ultraviolet rays from the sun kills bugs. That, along with the fresh air, is nearly as good as a wash when you’re out here. My blankets will go out later. I could do with washing some clothes but I think I’ll just buy a shirt and jeans onshore. We ain’t finished, but she looks spanking! Our little darling boat, going to miss her.

It has been a while since we had any passengers, the little birds who would flit around us before succumbing to the ocean. We did have a stowaway. A bee. We tried to keep it from going below but eventually it ended up in Dan’s cabin. He shooed it out and for a while it buzzed around the fishing line off the stern. It would rest on the line at times. It was funny to have this little thing with us, unsure if it would last the night, we put some honey in a bottle cap by the mast. On Eve, we like to treat our passengers with respect and equality. Well, until the flies arrived. Flies. On board. How, I don’t know. The first attacked me during nightwatch, frightened the daylights out of me. Respect and equality out the window, I hunted it down. To my horror, I found more. They were all over us. I went a bit crazy, severely disturbed by the idea of flies on our boat. Hence the cleaning, we’d let her go a little. Cigar ash, cigarette ash, even volcanic ash, hair, sand and dust sullied Eve’s curves. I’m glad I had cut my hair off before leaving Ireland, imagine all those grey curls on top of all this? No flies on us, or so I had thought. We hadn’t noticed how the fine ash from Mount Etna had settled all over her. Dirt from within the earth, crusty.

1600 26°20E
We’ve spent the last hour staring at land. We’ve passed so close. The only places where we’ve gone so close were the Calbrian coast and Lipari’s southern tip. This is a wild spot, a few small beaches, a few small buildings, some evidence of horticulture but not many signs of wildlife. As we approach a headland, the Captain tells us, “All sorts of wonderful things are going to open up.” Suddenly we can’t wait, our patience running low, anticipation reigns supreme. It’s been a long island, and featureless until this bay. There’s such a mixture of rock here. Some like petrified earth, some grey and fissured, blocks cut and resting on each othere, tilted towards the sea as if waiting to tumble in. A deep crack reveals iron deposits, red rock. A few trees are visible on the biggest beach yet, giving us an idea of scale. I see a birds flying along the cliffs but lose it against the backround. No way to see wildlife, even through the binoculars. We’re still too far away.

1613 Indeed, Mark was right, this is wonderous! Astipalaia, a town that looks like it’s been hung out on a clothes line, smiling at us, like the moon last night and a valley we passed a while back. All things come in threes, they say. For these three smiles for us, we thank the gods. Another yacht came fron the east, heading west, it’s racing hull making our Eve blush. At least she’s clean and shiny now.

Dinner at sunset, Mark did the honours. Dan looks at peace, we all feel it, drink it all in, a quiet evening. We don’t know yet if Dan has to go back home, we have no details of the next leg. We’ll only find out in Fethiya

2100 A busy evening’s traffic. Just after dark, a ferry leaving Astipalaia fooled me. I took the lights to be street lights on land. The lights had stayed in position relative to the others in the town, and she had headed straight at us, sparking a discussion where I felt sure, for once, that it was not a ship. “Never say what a ship is going to do, only what it’s doing right now. Where it is, and what direction it’s pointing in, that’s all you’re going to know. They can change course at anytime, never trust them.” Another lesson from Mark. I keep learning, I hope. This one turned south across our stern. Another was heading north across our bow but did a semi-circle around us and ended up facing southwest behind us. Mark swapped watches with Dan. I’m still due up at 0300 hours, time to sleep. Five or six hours? Two nights in a row. Sheer luxury. And tomorrow the land of the Turks. As with Greece, it’ll be my first time there. Arriving by sea is proving a better option than flying in. And I’ll get a stamp in my passport, the first since Morocco. So, as I go to sleep, I pray to whoever out here my soul to keep. Lir, Neptune, Poseidon, guide us to our final destination, keep this ship safe on the last day of our journey to Eden.