As a lot of people know, I’m not nearly as prolific when Rhett is onboard so please excuse the timing on this post. I started it when Rhett and I were on the island of Lanzarote (blue star in the upper right below). I made landfall there on November 6, sailing from Madeira and Rhett then met me on Lanzarote a couple days later. Since then, after going deep on Lanzarote we sailed overnight 130 miles from Lanzarote Santa Cruz de Tenerife (circled below) and have done ferry and car touring of the western islands of La Palma and La Gomera. Rhett is now preparing to return home to the US and I’m preparing to sail 700-800 miles to the Cape Verde Islands (either directly or via the southwestern-most Canary Island of El Hierro).
As our time the Canary Island of Lanzarote grows short, I’m struck by the assumptions that I had made that have been dashed against the rocks of reality.
The assumptions…
First—zooming out to the entire Atlantic Ocean—whenever I had imagined an arcing line that connects the Azores, Madeira, the Canary Islands, and the Cape Verdes, I assumed all these islands were part of the Mid-Atlantic Ridge.
Second—zooming in to the Canaries—as I prepped for landfall, Isla Lanzarote (lan-zah-RAH-tay) was the obvious choice when sailing from Madeira since it’s at the extreme northeast of the archipelago and closest to Madeira. Seeing how the island was situated and that it is arid and relatively barren compared to the lushness of other Canary Islands to the southwest, I assumed the archipelago was growing towards the northeast (in geologic time) making Lanzarote the newest island and there just hadn’t been time for plant life to establish.
Third—and a refreshing palate cleanser in the midst of all the US politics—think about what profession is most likely to have a true, positive lasting effect an entire culture? If your head is anything like mine, the knee-jerk assumption is of a politician, scientist, or military leader.
Fourth and final—and on to the fraught-with-peril topic of relationships—Rhett and I hadn’t seen each other in over three months. In that intervening time even though we had had great talks via video most every day I wasn’t at sea, it was undeniable that we had temporarily headed off in complementary but different directions. I had been consumed with sailing, all things Hazel, and moving our adventures out of the Med and (eventually) to the Caribbean—while Rhett had been home focusing on family, upcoming grandchild, and upgrades to our house in Florida. While modern communication was the gravitational field that kept us in orbit with each other, we were truly in different worlds. On my three-day sail from Madeira to Lanzarote and in my first couple days alone on Lanzarote (before Rhett’s arrival), I had thought long and hard about the potential friction of reentry that we could experience (and how our reunion could go awry).
Now for the assumption busting…
Since I’m not at sea (where I am blissfully unencumbered by fact-checking), I was forced to learn a bit more about the Mid-Atlantic Ridge. The ridge is part of the longest mountain range in the world and it separates the North American, Eurasian, and African Plates. However, while the Azores occupies a prominent spot on the Ridge—at the tectonic triple intersection of those three plates—immediately south of the Azores, the Ridge takes a distinct western turn leaving Madeira, the Canaries, and Cape Verdes hanging. While all three are volcanic and in the misty past may have been on the ridge, in the Holocene (the geological modern epoch) they are not.
My second busted assumption was about the arid Lanzarote landscape indicating it was the youngest of the Canary Islands. While I had done a bit of pre-reading about the island, I was under-prepared for the enormity of the Martian landscape and the jarring juxtaposition of a desert rising from the sea. I found myself humming America’s song Horse with no Name.
On our driving tour with our most-excellent native guide Angela, she busted my assumption about Lanzarote’s age by telling us was the oldest of the Canary Islands. It turns out that its barren landscape relative to the other Canary Islands has nothing to do with age and everything to do with altitude. While Lanzarote’s peaks are impressive, they “only” rise 2,200 feet out of the sea. The five western and greener islands average out at 7,300 feet with Tenerife having the highest peak in all of Spain (El Teide [el TAY-deh] at a whopping 12,200 feet). Air blowing over the sea naturally accumulates water vapor. When it encounters an island, it has two choices: go over or around. The air that goes over the island is mechanically lifted by the land and if it’s lifted high enough, the water vapor will condense into rain. On average, Lanzarote receives a meager 6-8 inches of rain per year, while La Palma (the wettest of the islands and 200 miles west of Lanzarote) receives 31-47 inches per year
Have no fear though, although Lanzarote is the eldest child in the family, it certainly hadn’t lost its volcanic spark. In relatively recent history on September 1, 1730 it began a six-year eruption that increased the island’s landmass by 25%. Given the Canaries first emerged from the ocean around 20 million years ago, this eruption (300 years ago) happened in the geologic blink-of-an-eye past. Fleeing residents rightfully assumed the literal fire and brimstone was the work of El Diablo (The Devil) and throughout the island you’ll see the El Diablo motif.
In telling this story as she drove around lunar-looking craters, Angela added that the first mayor of San Antonio, Texas, Juan Seguín (who also fought alongside Davy Crockett at the Battle of the Alamo) was a descendent of Lanzaroteños and Lanzaroteñas who emigrated because of the eruption. Of course as soon as Angela recounted this, Rhett pumped her fists in a gesture eerily similar to the picture above and blurted out in her southern drawl, “I lived there!” The Brits and Dutch in the tour van with us chuckled.
Although the last eruption on Lanzarote was in 1834 the “thin spots” within the Parque Nacional de Timanfaya are amazing. Temperatures just 8 feet below the surface are almost 1,000º F. As a demonstration, park staff have a long (and I mean long) pitchfork and they shove dead and dried tumbleweed-looking bushes into fissures which immediately burst into flames.
In the park lodge, lunch is cooked over the heat. Angela got us there early, well before the crowds, so we were able to tour the lodge’s geothermal barbecue.
The grill itself is enclosed in a giant beehive shaped structure of dry-fitted volcanic basalt. César Manrique designed and oversaw the construction of it and the entire park lodge.
Speaking of “No Bare Feet” in another demonstration, park staff had us stand outside a circle drawn in the red, pea-sized gravel (we were sternly warned to not step into the circle). A ranger in insulated boots stepped in the circle with a flat bladed shovel and carefully poured a little bit of the gravel into each of our hands. While not burning hot, the gravel was way too hot to hold in your hands without tossing it from hand to hand like an inpatient child pouring hot hot-cocoa from mug to mug to cool the drink.
A final demonstration from the rangers was of water being instantly vaporized by the energy…
The only other actively volcanic places I have been were Yellowstone National Park in the US and Mount Etna on Sicily. While both are fantastic and fascinating, what struck me about Lanzarote in comparison was its intimacy and subtlety. The Yellowstone caldera is 30 miles across and Mount Etna rises 11,000 feet from the Mediterranean Sea. Conversely, on Lanzarote it seemed that everywhere you looked there was another micro-caldera. It reminded me of Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’s The Little Prince and how he would rake out his volcanoes every day on his tiny planet, even the extinct one because “…you never know.”
Continuing on the subtlety theme, from a distance the landscape looks almost entirely black and burned. However, when studying the most-volcanic areas up close lichens cling to the igneous rocks eking out an existence.
Speaking of “eking out an existence” If I could travel back in time and meet the first Lanzaroteño or Lanzaroteña who said, “Gee, our island seems like a good place to grow grapes.” I’d both admire their perseverance and optimism, and question their sanity. If my opinion saddened my ancient Lanzaroteño friend, I’d provide comfort by explaining that they are not alone—I have the same questions of the Greek Santorinians. Before Rhett’s and my visit to that Greek island with the Italian name last summer, the term “vineyard” immediately evoked images of endless rows of head-high trellises intertwined with lush, verdant vines. However, the Santorinians (with volcanic soil and a windy, semi-arid climate similar to Lanzarote) learned to grow their grapes low. They trained the vines into what appeared to be grounded Christmas wreaths. With minimal rainfall, the doughnut shape guided the nightly dew that formed on the grape leaves to drip into the vine’s roots.
The Lanzaroteños variation on the viticultural theme is to plant each grape vine in a zoco (THO-koh), a shallow pit surrounded by a low horseshoe-shaped wall. The pit funnels sparse rainwater to the roots. The wall points north, into the prevailing wind, protecting the vine.
If you think this seems like a difficult way to grow grapes—you’re dead right, it is. However, in the days before cheap and ubiquitous transport if you lived on Lanzarote and wanted wine this was your only option. Today, the certification of Lanzarote wine is very strict. In order to label as such, not only do the grapes need to have been grown and transformed into wine on the island, traditional methods must be employed and the grapes only irrigated in times of severe drought (when a vine’s life is at stake).
For the third assumption about the type of person likely to have a positive impact on an entire people and culture, we come to the story of César Manrique (1919-1992) (say-SAR mahn-REEK-ay)—painter, sculptor, architect and landscape architect, environmental activist, and all-around visionary.
People who live in cool-looking underground lairs carved out by molten lava are usually, in Bond movies at least, hellbent on global destruction.
But on the wild, volcanic landscape of the Canary Islands, one man used his subterranean hideaway, complete with open-air pool and striking artwork, to plot something far better: the preservation of paradise.
—Barry Neild, CNN Travel Writer
Showing an early interest in art, he studied at the Fine Arts School in Madrid, and lived in New York City in the late 1960s and early 1970s—hanging out with Andy Warhol and Jackson Pollack. While his education in Spain and seasoning in the US developed him as an artist, it’s when he returned to his native Lanzarote in 1970 that he truly blossomed.
While Rhett and I had read a bit about Manrique prior to our touring the island, we thought—as with most artists—we’d visit a museum or two with his works exhibited, look at each painting up close and then step back and cross our arms and cock our heads and “hrumph” a bit…to make it look like we know something about museum art. Heck, I was even considering wearing my beret for added effect.
We weren’t prepared for the ubiquity of Manrique’s installations throughout the island. It was literally impossible to drive more than 15 or 20 minutes without passing one of his sculptures.
While there are artists more famous than Manrique, I don’t know any that have had such a positive impact on a people. Prior to Manrique’s heyday, Lanzarote residents had an inferiority complex. Perhaps it was the minimal rainfall compared to the lush Western Canaries or the far distance to the bustling “main” islands of Gran Canaria and Tenerife. Regardless, Manrique recognized that collective outlook and wanted to change it.
Through a combination of grit, coalition building, artistic genus, political connections, and activism. Not only did he move the island from obscurity to a major tourist destination, he saw the direction of tourism on the other Canary Islands and foresaw the perils of over-tourism. With that foresight he helped arrange a more sustainable tourism model on Lanzarote that, even today, seems to be fully embraced by the island’s residents and visitors.
About 4,000 years ago the La Corona volcano erupted on Lanzarote and its aftermath bored a series of lava tubes just below the surface of the Earth flowing from the volcano to the sea. In places the lava tubes have collapsed, creating jameos (volcanic caves or tunnels). Shortly after Manrique arrived back in Lanzarote after his time in New York City, he proclaimed that he would make the Jameos del Agua one of the most beautiful places in the world. It was a bold statement considering that—at the time—the Jameos del Agua was a literal hole in the ground and its enormous size and depth had made it a convenient garbage dump. It’s now a world-recognized cultural and artistic space.
Given all the strife in the world, it was a refreshing reminder that—somewhere—peace, artistry, and sustainability can win.
On to the fourth assumption that I had made: because Rhett and I had been apart for three months and doing very different things, our reunion would be bumpy. Was that me being pessimistic or me being a sailor? I guess both are true. Do I want and hope for fair winds and following seas?—sure. Am I going to have a plan-B to weather the storm if it comes?—you bet.
To get to Hazel and me, Rhett had some arduous travel: a drive to Miami (perhaps the most dangerous part of the voyage), a flight from Miami to Madrid, then another flight from Madrid to the Canary Island of Tenerife and a hotel overnight, then finally a short-hop flight from Tenerife to Lanzarote where I met her in the airport.
Our days together started great, almost so great that, for a while, I forgot my going-in trepidation of the situation. The most poignant reminder for me came on our tour of the national park. We were marveling at how the lichens not only survived but thrived in this harsh environment. Here these living things made their stand, with no topsoil and perched on volcanic basalt, exposed to the full brunt of the subtropical sun, with minimal rain and no source of ground water. Not only do they make something from apparently nothing, the thing they make is the most precious thing in the world—life. It’s pure magic.
As I pondered this it occurred to me that somewhere I had read that a lichen wasn’t one thing. The way lichens perform this animating magic isn’t by being hearty and solitary pioneers, but by being together. Each lichen is a symbiotic pair, one partner delivering structure, protection, and moisture retention—the other providing sustenance through photosynthesis. I like to think of myself as the first partner in the pair (providing structure and protection) because, not only does the story work a bit better, but that partner happens to be a fungus and something tells me that Rhett wouldn’t appreciate being analogized by a fungus. The other partner—Rhett if you will—is a green algae or cyanobacteria (depending on the type of lichen) and produces the sugars—the sweetness of life—that nourishes both (we all know that’s not me). Sure, with our human adaptability each of us could probably survive independently, but who wants to merely survive when you can thrive? And that’s the symbiosis that Rhett and I re-experienced in our reunion after three months. Yes, we’ve had a few bumps: I had reconfigured Hazel’s storage from short-hop day and overnight two person sailing to long distance solo passages. In her first 24-hours onboard I can’t tell you how many times Rhett asked, “Where did you put my…?” When Rhett explained what she had done and was doing to our house back home, a couple details seemed excessive to me and caught me off-guard. But I supposed that’s the normal turbulence to be expected upon reentry. Looking out across the lunar landscape of Lanzarote and seeing the symbiotic lichens reminded me that together we’ve achieved something that neither of us could do alone.
Fair winds and following seas and Happy Thanksgiving to all in the US!