s/v Hazel James

The Fire Island

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).

Map of the “eight” Canary Islands. Seven of them are obvious. The tiny Isla Graciosa (just off the north coast of Lanzarote) was recently upgraded from an islet of Lanzarote to the eighth island in the archipelago. (I’ve heard that the “dwarf planet” Pluto—who was demoted from full-fledged planet in 2006—is still miffed about the whole affair.)

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.

As an artist-appetizer and speaking of Isla Graciosa—this is a view from César Manrique’s Mirador del Rio (*Mirador*=Viewpoint and *Rio*=River) looking north from Lanzarote and 1,600 feet above sea level (more on the artist Manrique later).“The river” refers to the channel in the foreground named Estrecho del Rio (Narrow River) that separates Lanzarote from Isla Graciosa.

…and another. Note the artistry in the ironwork sign and how it works with the vulcan terrain, clearly the work of César Manrique.

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.

The S-curve Mid-Atlantic Ridge with the Azores, Madeira, Canaries, and Cape Verdes highlighted. Note the depths shown are in meters and the deepest is the close-to-home Puerto Rico Trench at 8,380 meters (27,500 feet or 5.2 miles). Also note that about halfway through my sail from the Canaries to Cape Verdes, I’ll cross into the tropics.

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.

A large tour bus in the center of the photo dwarfed by its surroundings and looking like a Mars Rover. That’s the Atlantic Ocean in the background.

Another of the booming surf and the volcanic basalt.

Here’s a picture of Rhett and me getting that previous booming-surf picture. Note the lotta-leg-Instagrammer who wandered off the path for that perfect shot. It was comforting to know that if she fell off the rocks and drowned, at least she’d die doing what she loved. At the end of the day, that’s the most any of us can hope for—right?

With our sailing friends Nicole and William (on the ends), and our guide Angela in the middle. (They’ll be more about our reunion with William and Nicole, and other sailing friends, in an upcoming post).

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.

By this point, I had stopped humming America’s *Horse with No Name* and switched over to Johnny Cash and *Ring of Fire*.

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.

Rhett and Nicole entering the cooking area. The sign says, “¡ATTENTION! HIGH TEMPERATURES (FLOOR AND GRILL)” I suppose that’s a polite way of saying, No Bare Feet!

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.

Rhett and Nicole with geothermal hand warmers.

A final demonstration from the rangers was of water being instantly vaporized by the energy…

The ranger’s timing was impeccable.

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.”

A tiny, and hopefully extinct volcano cone. Probably about 50 feet across at the base.

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.

Typical landscape from a distance (note the whitish cast to some of the rocks that looks like a dusting of snow).

Narrowing the aperture, the “whitish cast” becomes life.

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.

A Santorinian vineyard from our travel there in the summer of 2023.

A close-up of one vine trained into the shape of a wreath. If you look closely, you’ll see some grapes drying into raisins.

An even closer view of the desiccating Santorinian grapes.

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.

A grape vine in a *zoco*. The harvest was in July and the plant is now trimmed back for winter.

*Zocos* stretching up the mountainside. While an immense vineyard, there’s only one vine per *zoco*.

This is me taking the previous picture and surrounded by *zocos*.

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.

An ordinary Lanzarote traffic circle made magnificent by a Manrique wind sculpture.

Another wind sculpture at Manrique’s home.

Referring to the earlier quote, Rhett in front of one of the “hallways” in Manrique’s home, carved out by molten lava…

The dining area of the Timanfaya National Park main lodge.

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.

Another view of the tables stretching into the cave.

The concert space that utilizes the cave’s natural acoustics.

Just down the road from Jameos del Agua (and part of the same lava tube) was another Manrique installation at the Cueva de las Verdes (Green Cave).

The views inside the cave were incredible. The bottom half of this picture is a reflection from above in a mirror-still pool. While the pool appears bottomless, our guide later shined a flashlight into it, revealing that it was less than a foot deep.

Black volcanic sand beach in the midground with Lanzarote dwellings in the background. Note the population concentration (leaving open spaces elsewhere on the island), the all-white motif, and low-rise heights—all part of the artist’s vision. Rhett in the foreground with her new favorite Manrique T-shirt.

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!

Pictures at an Exhibition

Given I’ve got limited time but near unlimited bandwidth (a rarity lately), I’ll make this post text lite and photo heavy. It’s 1100 local time in Madeira and I’m waiting for the squally cold front from the remnants of subtropical storm Patty to pass so I can start sailing the 275 miles to the island of Lanzarote in the Canary Islands. Provided the weather breaks after the front and I can get out of here, should be a 2-4 day sail. Hopefully, I will beat Rhett there by a couple days but we’ll see what Poseidon and Aeolus have to say about that. I’ll keep micro posts going on our passage to Lanzarote so please tune in (on HJ’s. home page).

From Cadiz to Porto Santo

I was so impressed with Cadiz. Big enough and historical enough for sustained interest, but off the tourist trail. Especially in October. The 600 mile sail to Porto Santo was challenging but good. I felt great about my sailing and decision making.

Porto Santo

There are two inhabited islands in the Madeira Archipelago: the smaller Porto Santo, and the much larger Madeira. Porto Santo is northeast of Madeira and therefore first on my route. It’s much lower than Madeira, more arid, and blessed with a “real” beach.

From Porto Santo to Madeira

Short 30 mile daysail from Porto Santo to Madeira. Given wind predictions, I elected to start sailing at 0100 and arrive at sunrise before the wind died.

About 20 minutes out from Porto Santo (and at 0200), this bird hit me in the face. We were both a bit stunned. I’ll write more about it someday.

Tour of Madeira Island

I took a great group jeep tour of the island with guide and driver Pedro.

Tour started at a small fishing village. Note the terraced used of every space for agriculture.

Funchal

Pronounced FOON-shall. The capital city of Madeira Island and the Archipelago.

Ponta de São Lourenço Hike

Our marina is on the eastern end of the island and just east of us was an excellent hike. Sunrise was at 0730 and I left HJ at 0600 to be on the trail for sunrise.

Making great vantage point just in time for sunrise.

Fair winds and following seas!

All Systems Go

Hazel’s ready, the Captain’s ready, the weather looks good, no orca encounters or sightings over the past several days—we are ready to roll.

It’s about 2130 here (9:30 p.m.) and I’m just about to “turn flukes” as Melville would say in Moby Dick. Tomorrow morning about sunrise, we’ll return our marina access card (and get our €15 deposit back!), cast off Hazel’s slip for the past three days, bunker at the fuel dock (take on diesel), and start sailing west. It should be pretty stiff breezes, 25-30 knots but an excellent direction, from the northeast allowing us to sail on a fast port-tack broad reach. We’ll sail due west for 30 miles to the 7º West line of longitude and then head for Porto Santo, Madeira. I’m thinking it will be a 4-6 day sail. You can track our progress and get my daily updates on the chart on our home page.

I’m so glad I stayed in Cadiz and had 2 days to tour the city. It’s a beautiful Spanish town…especially in mid-October and well off the season. Many Spanish seaside towns have fully (and recently) constructed marinas (without the break wall there would be no harbor). However, Cadiz has a natural harbor so it has been an important port city literally from the beginning of civilization.

Fair winds and following seas.

One interesting tidbit on Cadiz from the old town (Barrio Populo). A Roman theater was discovered there in 1980…virtually yesterday in archeological terms. Archeologists were excavating the old town’s Medieval wall and, underneath the wall, discovered the theater. I’ve seen a lot of Greek and Roman theaters out in the middle of nowhere, so fascinating to see this in the middle of the city where people had erected modern buildings over it without ever knowing it was there.

Navigate and Orca-Strait

…of course I could have just as easily titled this post “Navigate the Orca-Strait” because we’re doing both at the moment. On one hand there’s the hour-to-hour, degree-to-degree and minute-to-minute navigation, but without high-level and mid-level sailing plans—the “orchestration” you might say—the navigation is pointless. As the Cat said, “If you don’t know where you want to go, then it doesn’t matter which path you take.”

Speaking of straights, I think it was our Greek friend Euclid who pointed out that the shortest distance between two points is a straight line. However, Hazel and I are not in Greece anymore and it appears that that rule does not apply around the Strait of Gibraltar. Perhaps I would modify it to: “The shortest distance between two points, that also minimizes the risk of an orca encounter, is not necessarily a Strait line.” But alas, my amendment lacks Euclid’s laconic pith.

Looking at the overall chart and orchestrating our path to Madeira, it’s pretty obvious that once clear of the Strait of Gibraltar and its busy commercial shipping lanes, Hazel and I should immediately alter course to port (left) and head west-southwest (roughly midpoint between due west and southwest) towards Madeira.

Our current location is the red chevron. A bit confusing but the “Madeira Islands” consist of both the big Island of Madeira and Porto Santo which lies 30 miles northeast of the Island of Madeira (plus a smattering of islets). The Island of Madeira appears on the chart above but much smaller Porto Santo does not (zooming in would show it). Porto Santo is roughly where the purple pin is located.

The only issue with Euclid’s solution to the problem are those pesky pods of orcas and their tendency to gnaw on sailboat rudders. As a quick aside (and a Google search will tell you a lot more), the current leading theory on why orcas do this is that underwater, sailboat rudders resemble tunas (locally, the orcas primary food source) and the intelligent mammals are using the rudders as “target practice” to train their calves. A straight line from the Strait of Gibraltar toward the Madeira Islands would take me directly through the heat of the heat map.

Gibraltar, where Hazel and I are now is just to the right (just off this chart). Tarifa, a major landmark and rough midpoint of the Strait is to the left (west) of Gibraltar and circled. Barbate (pronounced bar-VHAT-tee) lies about 20 miles northwest of Tarifa, and Cadiz (CAD-ease) lies 30 miles north-northwest of Barbate (both circled).

Rhett and I have joined and been following the orcas.pt website. (In case you are wondering, we did “Buy Me a Beer” for Rui the webmaster.) Per the website, “Iberian orcas’ swim profile is (between) 20 and 350 meters of depth (60 to 1,100 feet).” Rui’s general guidance for my situation is near “the red zone” to only travel in daylight hours and travel along the 20 meter (60 foot) depth contour all the way to Cadiz, then turn due west for 20-30 miles before laying in a course to Madeira.

While I’m sure the advice is well-intentioned, my belief is that risk is an inherent part of life and following the guidance to the letter comes at a cost. It’s another 70 to 90 miles of “sailing” and also a couple extra days and nights since night-travel is not advised. (“Sailing” in quotes because following a countour like this likely requires all motoring.) Yes, in case you are wondering, when our friend Theo lost two-thirds of his rudder to the curious cetaceans it was at night. (See previous post for the remains of his rudder.)

With all this laid out, I had also been tracking recent orca encounters and had seen a clear trend northward in the Atlantic and away from the Strait (ostensibly the orcas following the tuna migration). Before Tuesday of this week (two days ago), the last encounter in the Strait of Gibraltar was back in mid-September. So, until the other day, I had in the back of my mind that I could cut some corners when it came to the orca avoidance protocol. (Mind you, that was in the back of my mind and not the collective Rhett’s and my mind…but keep that between you and me.) I figured, somewhat hazily, that once I made Tarifa if I was “feeling good” and we had plenty of daylight, I could “Damn the torpedos” and head right at Madeira. Heck, I’m the captain and by the time I’d be begging for forgiveness (because I certainly hadn’t asked for permission), Hazel and I would be well clear of the hotspot and all’s well that ends well.

However, and as I said in my last micro-post on our home page (titled “Ox to the Rescue”), there was a sighting of orcas in the Strait of Gibraltar just the other day. While I got the information on our VHF radio, Rhett received more detail through the orcas.pt site…

“15/10/2024 13:00 Sighting N 35° 55.027′ W 5° 38.662′ Sw Tarifa #orcas. For those near the straighta. We were just surrounded by a pod of Orcas who followed us for about a mile. Luckily we were able to pour on all speen under power and make 12 knots and they left us alone.

Personally, I think the typos are endearing. I can just imagine the sweaty, trembling fingers trying to get a cogent report on the wire. I don’t know what kind of “sailboat” these sailors were in, but I can waterski at 12 knots. That’s more than twice the absolute best speed that Hazel can achieve while motoring.

So, I’ve decided to throw my secret corner-cutting plan—which is of course now no longer a secret—out the window. I’m going to stand up straight (Strait?), be a good Boy Scout, salute the flag, and follow the recommendations. Frankly, if we were staying coastal and this were the last sail of the year, I might just keep my cavalier approach and damn those torpedoes—any teeth marks on the rudder could be buffed out by a boatyard during a winter haul out. However, with the upcoming Atlantic crossing in mind, if Hazel were to suffer an encounter anywhere near as severe as Theo’s, we’d have to postpone the crossing attempt by a year, which would cause a whole cascading series of events. Besides, I’m feeling really good about getting back into the Atlantic and about the transatlantic crossing with its solid tradewind sailing.

So, the plan you should expect to see from Hazel and me is:

Friday October 17 – Depart Gibraltar area before sunrise to make the optimal tidal current and get daylight for transiting the Strait. Motor, sticking to the 20 meter depth contour through the Strait and once clear of the Strait continue to follow the coast to Barbate. We should reach Barbate in mid-to-late afternoon and have a reservation at the municipal marina in Barbate (Rhett and I stayed there for a night on our way into Med and—LOL—Barbate markets itself as the “Tuna Capital of the World.” Just what I didn’t need!)
Saturday 18th -Depart Barbate in the morning and continue motoring to Cadiz. Similar to Barbate, stay the night at the municipal marina in Cadiz.
Sunday 19th – Assuming the current weather window holds, set sail in the early morning, course 270º (due west) for 30 miles of daylight sailing, then turn to port and head right at Madeira which will be at a range of ~520 miles. (Hazel covers ~100 miles in a good day of sailing.) If the weather is not conducive, we can wait in Cadiz until it becomes so.

I’ll be busy the next couple days since costal navigation takes a lot more navigational attention and energy than offshore sailing. I’ve got no sea room to play with. I will do my best to stay on daily micro-posts (on the chart on our home page) and keep you apprised of what we’re seeing. Or—hopefully—not seeing.

Who knows. I’m probably spending a lot more time “orca-straiting” this whole thing than I need to. If I step back and look at every possible risk that Hazel and I regularly encounter, I still don’t think I’d put orcas on the top-5. However, I’m the guy who also thinks that driving a car on South Florida’s I-95 is more dangerous than sailing an ocean solo in a small boat, and I stand by that assessment. Still, there’s something about the beast that stirs the primordial soup of our human nature. After all, without a beast, Jaws wouldn’t be the movie that it is. And of course, the name of Quint the fisherman’s boat? Orca.

Fair winds and following seas.

PS: Full credit to my great friend Kevin who came up with the “orca-strate” pun. I chewed on it for a while as I hunch there was more there, there. Then, serendipitously, I came up with the “orca-strait” enhancement. Go team!

From Tuesday this week (2 days ago), the unmistakable bulk of the Rock of Gibraltar looming in the mist.

Hazel safely moored later that night with the Rock of Gibraltar in the background. If you refer to the previous picture Hazel is now behind and to the right of the Rock (as seen from the previous picture).

Although our first day in Gibraltar/Alcadesia was blustery. We had a warm day today with beautiful sun to dry out Hazel after several wet days.

Moored in the marina here…. interesting decoration on this rather homely catamaran’s hull.

A close-up. I just love the countenance. It seems to be begging for forgiveness (perhaps for intruding on the real orcas’ domain?) Or, maybe like the cars with “Student Driver” placards, this logo identifies the boat to the orcas as a trainer for very young calves. Perhaps—so as to not damage their baby teeth—the boat has rubber rudders? I could go on and on with this one…

Bonus for anyone interested: This is the ebb and flow of the currents in the Strait of Gibraltar. It is keyed off of high water at Gibraltar (second row, rightmost panel, “HW”=high water). Gibraltar is that little peninsula to the right in every frame. On Friday morning, high water Gibraltar occurs at 0415 (4:15 a.m.) and our trusty pilot book recommends departing Gibraltar at 2 hours after high (third row middle panel) to catch the best tidal current. We’ll slip our moorings at 0515 to have an extra hour of cushion. At 6 hours after high water (lower right) the cycle repeats in the upper left (it then being 5 hours before the *next* high water).

Just Passin’ Through

Tomorrow we sail! I pulled out my ship’s log and see that we arrived in Marina Almerimar on Saturday, September 14th. At the time, I was expecting a visit of 10 days that could reasonably stretch into 2 weeks. If you had told me then that we would be here 4 weeks, I would have laughed at you.

Almerimar is an interesting town and marina in that the two are integrated. While most marinas consist of piers or pontoons that stretch out into protected water (like a dock into a lake), Almerimar also has canals like you’d see in Florida that work their way through the town. It makes for a nice atmosphere when strolling through the town to walk along the canals with all the moored yachts.

A marina canal in the town surrounded by attractive apartments and residents out for a walk.

The faux lighthouse at the marina entrance with marina pontoons and the town behind.

Given the quiet canals, reasonable marina rates, proximity to airports, and milder winters than the rest of the Mediterranean, the marina and town are popular for sailors to winter-over in the water. They’ll often go “home” for a month or so to visit family but their real home is on the boat. With that being said, I’ve been here long enough this autumn and made enough friends that they’re starting to ask if I’m planning to winter on HJ here. I reply, “Nope, just passin’ through.” I’ve said it enough that I’ve started to think about what I’ve said and have realized that that’s all that any of us are doing on this spinning globe.

I like my girl when she’s loaded with food, her water and fuel tanks are full, sail covers off, and she’s tugging at her bow lines telling me she’s ready. That’s what she’s doing now as the sun sets this Saturday night and we’re preparing to sail before sunrise on Sunday morning.

Our next destination is Alcadesia Marina in Spain, very close to Gibraltar. It’s about 130 miles and if we catch a fair breeze should be there Monday or Tuesday (knock on wooed and full prostrations to Poseidon on that projection). From there, my professional weather routing team is telling me that a promising weather window to start my 650 mile sail to the islands of Madeira looks to be opening Thursday or Friday of this week. That would be ideal to give us a couple days to rest up and sort out any unforeseen problems with Hazel’s new equipment and rigging changes that made over the past month. I’ll start making daily updates to the satellite tracker on our home page tomorrow (Sunday, October 12th).

Fair winds and following seas.

As *Hazel* was lifted in preparation for launch this past Wednesday, David put final touches of antifouling bottom paint under her keel where her keel had been resting on wooden supports.

She then began the short trip from the yard to the launching slip.

Over the past couple weeks I had been making non-perishable provisioning trips to the specialty shops in town and to the big grocery store. Today’s final provisioning run focused on perishables.

Sure, Rhett might have bought her wedding dress in Paris and had it sent home for our wedding, but *Hazel* had a new sail made for her in Palermo, Italy and sent to us in Almerimar. After we launched she tried it on for me.

In case you are wondering about the beautiful Parisian wedding dress on the most beautiful bride!

Back to today’s provisioning…the first stop was to the baker Nicos.

I went in “just” for bread, and then saw the Halloween pumpkin cookies!

“I’ll take four…actually…make that an even half dozen.”

*Hazel* ready to go. Sail covers off, tanks full, well provisioned, rested and ready for the Atlantic.

Watching Paint Dry

It’s an instant of clarity when I happen to experience the core of a metaphor, the sinews of a simile—when a figure of speech animates itself and dances on the stage. I find it happens more frequently in my sailing life than in my other life. This week, as Hazel’s spa time continues, I had dinner with my marine surveyor Theo and, amongst other things, we were talking about the pros and cons of installing a swivel between a yacht’s anchor and anchor chain. On one hand, reducing twist in a chain is helpful. On the other, the swivel and associated shackles and pins are just more complexity and more things to go wrong and—as we all know—the strength of any system is defined by “its weakest link.”

In regular life, when speaking of something boring, we say “it’s like watching paint dry” and that’s sort of our situation on Hazel James at the moment. In last Saturday’s post when I talked about life in the shipyard and on the hard, I thought we’d be ready to launch this week but that’s not the case. Yesterday, as my hands worked on Hazel and my mind wandered to the topics of this post, the first title that came to mind was “I’ve Been Hard for Three Weeks.” However, I went with “Watching Paint Dry” as I had a hunch that maybe…just maybe…it could be misconstrued by a very small minority of blog readers (I’m sure that’s other people and not you though).

On Thursday of this week, the yard workers finished most of Hazel’s bottom paint redo. An arduous task of a complete sanding of the hull below the waterline, applying two coats of reinforcing epoxy, one coat of primer, and finally two coats of antifouling paint. In addition, in a properly done bottom-paint job timing is critical. Each successive coat needs to be applied when the previous coat is “tacky” (i.e., set but not fully cured). This allows a strong chemical bond between the layers.

The only problem now is that on the hard Hazel’s hull is supported by eight blocks that look like angled sawhorses. The areas of the hull beneath the blocks are inaccessible so to complete the bottom painting the blocks need to be moved. But, before this can happen, the new antifouling needs to sit for a few days to fully harden so that the blocks when moved do not mar the paint. In short, this weekend we’re waiting for paint to dry and on Monday, the blocks will be moved and the process repeated for the stripes that are currently under the blocks and we should be ready to launch this coming Wednesday.

Starboard side fully sanded. Note the four wooden supports (blocks) holding *Hazel* upright.

Finishing touches of antifouling being applied to port side. Again, the four blocks on this side.

A closer view of the sanding and painting to be done once the blocks are moved.

While the “like waiting for paint to dry” simile is somewhat apt, life aboard Hazel is anything but boring. At times, as I’m working away on preparing her for our upcoming transatlantic crossing, I wonder how in the world I would have gotten all of this work done without the three weeks we’ve been given in the yard on the hard. I’m sure we would have gotten by, but we wouldn’t be nearly as prepared.

Also, prior to this whole experience bottom paint was a bit of a mystery to me. Now I know more about it than I ever thought I would.

Sometimes I’ll refer to our Mediterranean travels as an odyssey and compare ourselves to Homer’s Odysseus. And yes, some of the challenges that Odysseus faced—like the dangers of Scilla and Charybdis in the Strait of Messina—are modern-day challenges for us too. However, while Hazel and I haven’t had to deal with alluring Sirens or giant one-eyed Cyclops or bags of contrary winds, Odysseus never sailed outside the Mediterranean and thus never had to deal with orca encounters.

Whenever we make landfall (approach land) after a long offshore passage, as my phone picks up a cellular signal, messages start pouring in and I’m ambivalent (part happy and part sad) that the solitude is over. In July 2022 as Hazel and I approached mainland Portugal near the conclusion of our west-to-east Atlantic voyage, one of the messages that downloaded was from our dear friends Donna and Steve. Rather than a congratulatory message thought, it was a warning about orca “attacks” in the area in which I was sailing. My first reaction was, “Lord, these people way too much time on social media.” I surmised that they picked up on one highly exaggerated encounter that had gone viral. Then, a couple days later as I was walking around the Lisbon marina, I noticed posters describing the orcas recent and peculiar interest sailboat rudders. It included details of where to report encounters. At that point I suspected that I had surmised wrong.

Even if Odysseus had sailed outside the Mediterranean he might not have had these problems since its recent phenomenon. I believe 2022 was the first year it was noticed, and since then encounters have gotten more frequent around the Strait of Gibraltar and up the Portuguese and Spanish Atlantic-coasts.

I’ve got to tell you that it’s one thing when you read about these encounters de-personalized and from a distance, and it’s another when, over a tapas dinner, my yacht surveyor Theo mentions—somewhat offhandedly—that he had a three hour, middle of the night, “encounter” with a pod of four to six orcas while sailing Periwinkle, his Hazel-sized sailing boat. Prior to this discussion, I had always thought that the word-choice of “attack” versus “encounter” was somewhat academic. However, Theo was quick to point out that it was an “encounter” because, “If they had wanted to attack and sink my boat, they could have done so in five minutes.” Theo considers himself fortunate that he only lost part of his rudder.

Theo’s boat *Periwinkle* being hauled from the water after the encounter (at least most of Theo’s boat).

Another view of the rudder. Only about one-third of it remains.

Long story short, like commercial shipping traffic, cruise ships, and stray fishing nets, the orcas are something that Hazel and I need to concern ourselves with that had never crossed Odysseus’ mind. (I’m sure though that if Homer knew of orcas, he could have woven and excellent yarn about them.) Therefore, both Rhett and I have joined the orcas.pt website and Telegram group to understand where the roguish pods are hanging out and the best routing to minimize risk.

I chuckled when first perusing the orcas.pt site because when I worked as a consultant, about the only thing I needed to scrape by was a “heat map,” any kind of graphical view of good vs. bad or probability. Just show a heat map, talk confidently and wave your arms around, and people tend to think you know what your doing. I should have seen it coming that Rui who runs orcas.pt would have a heat map and that dead-red would lie directly in my ideal path from the Strait of Gibraltar to the Madeira Islands.

The heat map on the orcas.pt site. Spain and Europe above and Morocco and Africa below. The channel of water to the right is the Strait of Gibraltar. The Madeira Islands lie 500 or so miles to the west-southwest (left and slightly down).

As I looked at Hazel’s bottom fully sanded, I wondered if this “orca-flage” pattern might allow me to sail by the pesky toothed whales undetected.

So, in a week or so when you see me sailing out of the Mediterranean on our satellite tracker you’ll likely see me hugging the Spanish coast until around the town of Cadiz, then sailing due west for 20-30 miles before arcing south and toward the Madeira Islands. It’s probably a couple more days of sailing but prudent given the conditions. It’s well known that orcas don’t like shallow water so I’ll doing my best to stick to the 20 meter depth contour (about 60 feet) when in the highest risk areas.

Leaving no stone unturned, I’ve burned all of my Shamu and Sea World tee shirts and Rhett is express mailing me Free Willy replacements.

Meanwhile the town, people and professionals of Almerimar continue to be wonderful hosts to Hazel and me. I’ve got my favorite tapas restaurant and I’ve learned what “real” tapas is. In the US, it’s just small plates. In Spain, you order a drink (alcoholic or nonalcoholic) and you get a tapas included in the price of the drink. Order another drink, and you get another tapas. Sure, if you want to make a meal of it you can order additional tapas but the classic paring is with a drink.

The menu. Note that most items have no price since they are included with a drink. The only prices are up-charges for specialty items.

Google translate was somewhat helpful. It told me that “Secreto” is “Secret.” I would tell you what it is but then it wouldn’t be a secret anymore would it? Honestly, I don’t know what was in it, just that it was delicious. The “Creepy” was pretty good too (perhaps a Halloween special?).

Stay tuned. As I said we’re hoping to launch on Wednesday and then will be looking for a good east wind to blow us the 130 or so miles to Gibraltar. We’ll probably call on the town of La Línea de la Conceptión, Spain (sister city to Gibraltar) and look for more east wind that coincides with a favorable tide to take us out of the Mediterranean and into the Atlantic. From there it’s a sharp right turn to skirt “orca alley” before pointing the bow towards Madeira.

While the prevailing wind here is from the west, we do get some east wind so I hope we’re not waiting too long before we can sail. I will alert everyone with a regular post (like this one) when we start sailing and will do daily micro-posts while underway that, as always, will be shown with our location on Hazel’s home page.

Fair winds and following seas.

Hard Life

In terms of women in my life, Rhett and Hazel have their similarities, and differences. Both enjoy—dare I say demand?—spa time. Furthermore, I’m learning that as a person often oblivious to these needs (a.k.a., a guy), that there’s a relationship between physical size and the spa time needed. For Rhett, it’s the bliss of a spa-day. (My protestations of, “Isn’t an hour massage enough?” are summarily dismissed.) Hazel of course is much larger and what I thought was going to be a couple days out of the water has become two weeks plus.

The differences between Rhett and Hazel lie in the sequencing of events. While Rhett enjoys the pleasures of spa visit immediately after a transatlantic flight, Hazel needs hers before the journey.

I had heard from other sailors that the Almerimar Marina and the town of Almerimar are excellent for having work done on a yacht and I’m delighted to say that I have found that to be the case. The marina also has a shipyard where boats can be hauled out so coordination between in-the-water and on-the-hard is easy. While the yard offers their own services, there are also many marine professionals in the town that do excellent work at reasonable prices (i.e., there’s healthy competition). Also, the yard allows captains and crew to work on their boats themselves. Finally, when in the yard crew can live onboard. All important points as many boatyards (especially in the US) require that only their people can do work on the boats and, at least in the US, living on hauled-out boats is virtually unheard of anymore. With the former, you can imagine what that monopoly does to cost and quality.

In addition, around the town there are good chandleries (marine stores) and if they don’t have what you need, they’re happy to order it and have it there in a day or two. There are also quality grocery stores, dentists, doctors, and everything else to keep Hazel’s captain afloat.

So with all that said, Hazel is thoroughly enjoying her spa time. As I’m writing this at 8:20 a.m. local time on Saturday and Juan and David (dav-EED) have just arrived to start sanding the old paint off below Hazel’s waterline (think of it as a massage for her bottom). Meanwhile I’m carefully inspecting her from masthead to keel, and from stem to stern, and addressing, or having professionally addressed, anything I find. I also had a survey done on her by an accredited marine surveyor who will deliver a detailed report on her seaworthiness (akin to a home inspection). Not only is the survey and surveyor a second set of eyes on top of mine, yacht insurance in Europe and North America is very different and the surveyor’s report should help us secure North American insurance when we arrive in the Caribbean.

When it comes to addressing things, I’ve found three general categories: First, there’s fixing what’s broken. Second, there’s hardening weaknesses. Thirdly, there are upgrades to make life onboard more comfortable. The common thread between the three lies in the contemplated voyage. Minor problems that can be lived with when nearshore can become menacing threats when there’s no outside help for thousands of miles.

At the same time, I’m working with our agent to figure out the formalities and paperwork required to call on the Madeira, Canary, and Cape Verde Islands on our transatlantic voyage (the two former being autonomous regions of Portugal and Spain respectively and the latter an independent country). I’m also reestablishing ties with my US-based professional weather router for services during my crossing.

To imagine life on the hard think of a home office in a treehouse. The good news is that there’s no commute and a nice view, the bad news is that you can’t leave it at the end of the day and you rapidly lose count of the trips up and down the ladder. When Rhett is sailing with us, we make frequent jokes that Hazel is so small and so tightly packed with spares and supplies that in order to get access to anything, you need to more five other things. We also joke that Hazel can go from neat-and-tidy to trashed in 60 seconds. At the end of every day, I try to clean up enough below decks that I have a little living and relaxing space. Also, since Hazel in the water draws 1.5 meters (5 feet) and then has another meter or so of freeboard (distance from waterline to gunnel), let’s just say I’m getting my exercise.

All this to say that life for Hazel and me is busy but rewarding. The prospect of what is to come is exciting and we’re surrounded by others who care about our voyage. Selfishly, it’s helpful to write a post like this because it forces me to step back from the day-to-day and look at all we’re experiencing and doing in a place so exotic and far from home—a reminder to savor the journey even more than the destination. As systems get disassembled in preparation for remediation and hardening, and paint gets sanded off, it’s so easy to get caught up in a single day’s work and feel like it’s all steps in the wrong direction. Sort of like the iconic image of a lady at the spa with a mud mask on her face and cucumber slices on her eyes, or me slung back in a Spanish dentist’s office getting my teeth cleaned—not the prettiest sight but it’s all part of the voyage. When I get down thinking about the enormity of the work, I do my best to breathe and trust in the process—Hazel and I did it before and we can do it again…with a lot of help from our friends.

Fair winds and following seas!

Moments later, the first indications of problems with her bottom paint.

*Hazel* chatting with her German neighbor *Greta*. Just like when Rhett tells me she made some new friends while at the spa.

Getting a better look at the bottom paint. Ugh, a big, pricey, and totally unanticipated job. We had had a lot of paint work done on her this last winter in Greece and thought we wouldn’t have to touch the bottom for a year.

Theo the surveyor. He is excellent and good to have him do the survey early in the haul-out as he offered valuable guidance on my work and introduced me to trusted specalists around the town. On a good day I think I know a thing or two, then I’m always amazed at how much I can learn from others.

In describing the local weather, my pilot book referred to “flying saucer clouds.” I thought I was going to need more imagination to see them!

Close up. Flying saucers fortell strong East winds in 2-3 days. I’ll need those winds in a week or so as we depart, bound for Gibraltar.

Who doesn’t love a bubble bath at a spa?

Nighttime in the yard and testing Hazel’s steaming light (halfway up the mast) and anchor light (top of the mast). Note that her folding mast climbing steps are extended since I’ve been up and down several times in my work.

An example of “hardening.” I use a dyneema soft shackle to attach the spinnaker halyard block (pulley) at the top of the mast. While the old shackle looked to be in serviceable condition for nearshore sailing, it had been at the top of the mast since 2022, crossing an ocean and taking both the Mediterranean Sun’s UV rays and the chafe of the spinnaker. If the shackle were holding something non-critical and at deck level I would have let it go knowing I could always replace it on the fly if it broke. However, the top of the mast is a different story. I made up this new soft shackle in Hazel’s saloon and test fitted it to the block.

The starting point for making the soft shackle was a straight piece of dyneema (a very strong modern line) and a homemade splicing needle (for you knot-nuts out there, it’s the inner core of some old wire rigging bent in half).

The rigging needle taken through the core of the dyneema with the bitter end of the line secured in the loop of the needle.

With the bitter end worked back through the core, the shackle takes shape.

Other finished soft shackles open, semi-open, and closed. Stronger than steel and a great solution in places where you don’t want metal on metal or metal flying around. For a while I used a metal shackle and the metal on metal noise, transferred down the mast, was horrible. The dyneema is beautifully silent.

On deck preparing to climb the mast and intstall.

Installed! I’m at the back of the mast and the block and soft shackle are at the front of the mast. The shackle links the block to a stainless steel ring securely attached to the mast. The gray line through the block is the spinnaker halyard. Other items of note: The wind vane above my head is for visual reference, the one above the block is electronic and is wired to my cockpit anemometer gauge that gives direction and speed. Anchor light in the center of the mast. The blue and red vertical lines are the main and yankee halyards. The vertical white support is Hazel’s “air terminal” (lighting rod). The red horizontal strap is a security strap for me to hold me on the mast leaving both hands free. Lots going on at the masthead!

Taking a moment to enjoy the view. Small local boats in the foreground. When in the water, Hazel was on the pier behind the local boats where all the catamarans are berthed. Interesting, on the plains in the background if you look closely you’ll see a lot of white patches. The patches are huge plastic sheets. My pilot book said that in this southernmost point in Europe, most of Europe’s winter vegetables are grown under this sheeting. The marina entrance is in the upper-left, just to the left of lighthouse structure. 130 miles behind it is Gibraltar and the Atlantic!

Let’s face it, the only difference between men and boys is the price of their toys…and every boy’s dream is to live in a treehouse.

Juan and David starting *Hazel’s* bottom massage this morning. While their sanders are a bit noisy on the outside, as I write this post in the saloon it’s like being inside an acoustic guitar while a rank beginner tries to play an AC/DC song.

I could call this photo “We be Jamón” or “When in Rome.” While in Spain I’ve let my vegetarianism lapse.

Seasonal Skull Scratching in Sardinia

…sure, the alliteration is cute and catchy, but change the context slightly and this blog post title could be read as a medical condition. However, time is short and it’s fitting (as you’ll soon see), so I’m going with it.

I toss, I turn, I give up and give in to wakefulness. Rolling over in Hazel’s forepeak berth, I’m groggily reminded that I’m alone. But then I remind myself that I’m never alone. I have a wonderful wife, a family, so many friends—it warms my soul.

On both sides of the berth (bed) there are shelves secured by wooden rails that do a pretty good job keeping the clothes on the shelves, on the shelves when we’re underway and heeling. When sleeping in the forepeak (at anchor and in marinas) I have a ritual of buckling my digital watch to starboard-side rail so I can easily see what time it is. In the dark I fumble around for the watch, find it, find its backlight button and press…3:55 a.m.

If I had a “sleep bank” where I could make unlimited deposits and then withdraw against the deposits whenever I wanted, I’d sleep all day today and go into tomorrow’s sailing with my account replete with shuteye. But that’s not how it works. As a long-distance, singlehanded sailor, one of the most common questions I get is, “When do you sleep?” My stock reply: “Whenever I can.” It’s like all good humor…

Hazel’s forepeak berth with my watch circled. Can you tell that Rhett is not onboard?

We’re moored in the rather ramshackle but endearing Marina del Sole in Cagliari in the south of Sardinia. In its description, my pilot book states, “Portacabin toilets and showers.” I’ve come to learn that this means “the facilities” are perched above the water on wooden docks and covered by plastic tents. It’s kind of like camping at a low-budget family campground, not some glitzy national park. Oh well, the staff and other sailors are friendly, the shower water is hot, and the protection from the weather and waves is adequate.

Hazel at 4:00 a.m. in the Marina del Sole.

I could blame being woken up on the wrong side of 4:00 a.m. on a squeaky spring that I have rigged on one of Hazel’s bow lines to absorb the shock-loads of swells, or I could blame it on the drunken skinny dippers a couple boats down, but that would be transference. The real reason is last night’s brain-swirl of looking at the miles I want to cover and direction in my next leg of sailing out of the Mediterranean, and overlaying the predicted winds and scratching my head when I don’t see a clear picture. On one hand I could wait for a better weather window—on the other hand, waiting for perfection would be waiting for forever.

In stepping back from the situation, I realize that this is not a new dilemma for me in the part of the sea and at this time of the year. September two years ago, Rhett, Sunny, Hazel, and I found ourselves in the eastern Balearic Islands (the Spanish archipelago of Mallorca, Menorca, and Ibiza) doing similar head scratching. We set forth from Menorca and made couple hundred mile and several day run to northwestern Sardinia encountering one pretty severe thunderstorm en route. We initially declared success on Sardinian shores only to find the stakes raised as we looked at our next sail to the Italian mainland (more about my 2022 thought process and our outcome of that sailing in our Piano Piano and Fortepiano posts).

I’m comforted thinking back to those times especially since, in the ensuing two seasons, I’ve learned so much more about sailing and specifically sailing in the Mediterranean. Now’, my next big goal is to make the Puerto Deportiva Almerimar (Marina Almerimar) on the Mediterranean coast of southeastern Spain. I’ve heard it’s a very good marina for prepping a boat for a transatlantic sail. I’d like to spend 10 days to two weeks there having Hazel pulled out of the water for some maintenance and inspection, and lots of other jobs and stocking up with spares and provisions.

Marina Almerimar is currently at a range of 600 miles. That’s a long sail but very doable with a consistent and favorable wind, and that’s the rub. As I look at the situation again and again, I may take my 2022 “piano piano” approach and instead sail for the Balearics, breaking the journey roughly in half without a whole lot of out-of-the-way sailing.

The direct route from Cagliari to Marina Almerimar. In the lefthand panel, while the “Length” is relevant (in nautical miles), don’t get fixated on the “Time” (that’s just unicorns farting daisies on a marshmallow path). Likewise on the “Fuel” (*Hazel* is a sailboat, not a motor on a stick for crying out loud).

The “piano piano” route with 3 stops in the Balearics (Mahon, Menorca; La Palma, Mallorca; and Ibiza Town. Ibiza). Even if I took this route I doubt I’d do all three stops though. We spent a lot of time in the Balearics in 2022 so I’m not dying to see more of them. However, having options is good.

We’ll see. Applying some personal advice recently offered, I’m planning to set forth from Sardinia Friday morning, get out there and play it by ear as to my next landfall. Cagliari is tucked up in the Golfo di Cagliari (Gulf of Cagliari) in the southeast of the island and it’s a bit of sailing just to make the southern tip of Sardinia and start westing. A Friday morning departure should give me 24-36 hours of favorable wind to clear the coast and give me some sea room for whatever comes next. “Sea room”—that is distance from land—is important. If the weather turns snotty—sure, ideally you’d be tucked in port somewhere—but if that’s not possible, the second best option is to be far from land with room to maneuver without the threat of being blown into land. The good news is that, to start, there’s not much difference between the two routes. Initially I’ll try to head due west and keep my options open.

For anyone way into navigation. Here’s my overall planning chart and table of destinations, options, distances, and durations.

On a recent, rather plaintive relationship advice call, my best friend Mike told me, “Dan, I see it when you’re out there all by yourself. You overthink things. Don’t get stuck in those loops. Just keep it simple.” It’s sound personal advice and I think it will work for sailing as well.

Fair winds and following seas.

If all goes according to my departure plan, I’ll start my daily satellite micro-posts on the hjsailing home page Friday night or Saturday morning (September 6 or 7) and keep you apprised of status, progress, and decision making.

Other scenes from Cagliari:

Closer. Note the cruise ship in port. Seeing it stabbed me in the gut with a pang of loneliness. Rhett and her best friend Maria are currently on a Mediterranean Cruise (in Italy no less…Amalfi Coast today). She is, “so close but so far away.”

Inside the harbor now and the city and Marina del Sole is to the right.

Marina del Sole with reception to the right and the “Portacabin toilets and showers to the left.”

A view from the marina’s reception tent.

In spring-2020 in the midst of the pandemic when I was departing the BVI, my sailing friend William offered me the blessing, “May your boat sink in warm and shallow waters.” Perhaps the Reverend William offered the same blessing to this captain? (marina in the background)

Nice vantage point of the city and sea. The marina and *Hazel* are on this side of the long seawall slightly to the left of center in the picture.

Nothing better than a farmer’s market for provisioning fresh food! I love the scooter bigger than the car. The people were so nice with my “poco Italiano.” A “Grazie mille” (a million thank yous) will get you a long way in Italy.

Provisions onboard and ready for stowage. While we might sink, we won’t starve.

The farmer’s market location later that day. I’m glad I went first thing in the morning!

Playing some mash-up between football (soccer) and kayaking that I’d never seen before.

Soft is Hard

Good morning. I’m sailing today from Palermo, Sicily bound for some port on Sardinia’s South Coast. It’s about 220 miles of sailing and should take me about 3 days given the weather. It looks mild…probably too mild. While my overall direction of sailing is west-northwest, I’m not sure if I’ll initially stay south to try to catch some more predicted wind, or work north where the current appears to be favorable.

Here’s the predicted wind map that I’m looking at with Sicily in the lower right and Sardinia the upper left. If this pans out, staying south is better. Also, I think I could catch a convective sun-generated sea breeze from the north today if I stay close to the coast of Sicily during daylight hours.

On the other hand…this is the current map which indicates I’d be better off getting north. (Sigh) it would be nice if the wind and currents coordinated.

Zooming out for a moment. Last night was a sleepless night given the anticipation of sailing and, more to the fore, what I posted yesterday. So, being awake early I spent some time sketching out my anticipated overall sailing itinerary for the rest of the year (and maybe into early next year). I also wanted to layout some of the options that I have (specifically visiting the Madeira Islands before the Canaries and Cape Verde Islands after). I’m sure the drawing and table is cryptic to anyone but Rhett or me who have been living this, but the bottom line is that there is a lot of sailing and a lot of coordination. It’s a little daunting and reminds me of the spring of 2022 and being several days out of Bermuda bound for the Azores and making the mistake of zooming out on Hazel’s chartplotter and seeing just how big the North Atlantic Ocean is and how little of it I had covered. While the bird’s eye view (perhaps satellite view?) is helpful, “one day at a time” is all that really counts. One piece of good news is that as I work eastward, and particularly get out of the Mediterranean and into the Atlantic, I’m confident the winds will be fair, stronger, and more consistent which should help our average speed considerably.

Man plans and the gods laugh. Pretty obviously Barbados is not drawn to scale. I’d have to tape 2 or 3 sheets of paper to the west (left) to do that.

On the above image, point A to B in the upper right corner is my upcoming sail and I’ll try to make daily micro-blog updates on the tracker of our home page. Thanks for following along.

So much for the hard technicalities of navigation and on to the soft side.

As I say this, I’m disoriented as it feels like hard is soft and soft is hard. It’s like Macbeth’s witches said: “Fair is foul and foul is fair.” While I’m confident I’ll figure out the hard technicalities and—at the end of day—I’ll either stay south or go north as I work my way to Sardinia, the soft side is vexing.

Fair is foul and foul is fair: Hover through the fog and filthy air.

Shakespeare, Macbeth, Act I, Scene I

If you’re the reader of the blog who clicks-through emails you get from me via hjsailing to the online version of the blog post, you may have noticed that I retracted yesterday’s post. If you just read posts directly from the email you receive and you haven’t yet read yesterday’s post, do me a favor and don’t—just delete it.

This has been a challenging time for me emotionally. Sailing solo, especially in mild conditions, gives me more time than I probably should have to over-think things. It’s lonely, there’s no two ways about it. “Solitude” is a nice euphemism, but “lonely” is more accurate. Adding on to the above soft-hard and fair-foul irony, if conditions were really harrowing I could just focus on the task at hand and block out everything else, but I haven’t had a lot of that lately.

I could just blame my actions on the month of August and all that’s happened during previous Augusts—but that would be the easy way out.

I guess what I’m really trying to say is that this middle path that I’m seeking, somewhere between Scylla and Charybdis, is an affirmation to a fulfilling life together with Rhett, to family and being there for family when they need me, and to balancing home and adventure. Yesterday’s post was intended to introduce my mind’s searching for the path and I was excited to build on the theme in the future posts. However, my half-baked thoughts did not communicate well and it hurt and I’m sorry.

I know this doesn’t make up for everything and maybe it doesn’t make up for anything, but I’m trying.

I’m sorry, I love you. Fair winds and following seas.

The good ol’ girl prepped to depart Palermo this morning. Note off-boarding the final trash and also leaving Turkish and Adriatic pilot books on the dock for anyone who could use them as I am headed west. Final note, it’s the weekend and a number of charter boats are on the dock and being turned-over (thus the cleaning supplies next to *Hazel’s* starboard-side neighbor).

Last Day Sailing

A few professional writers I know speak with awe about old-school newspaper reporters, back in the days of clacking typewriters, smokey press rooms full of reporters, and print rooms that smelled of newsprint 24×7. What impresses them most is their ability to generate a story while under time pressure. If your story isn’t done by the deadline, it doesn’t get printed. I feel that way this morning, alone in Hazel’s saloon with a cabin fan running for air circulation (the bow hatch and port lights are all closed because it’s spitting rain). It’s 0500 Italy time and I’ve got about 30 minutes to get a post posted before I need to start final preparations to sail, to make my 0700 planned departure time from the Reggio Calabria Marina on the toe of the boot of Italy. Timing is important given that we’ll be launching out in the tidal strait that is the Strait of Messina, it’s spring tides (the highest tidal differentials of the month, generating stronger currents), and we need to get that timing right. After all, while the actual locations of a lot of Homer’s tales are in question and hotly debated, there’s no question where Scilla and Charybdis were—right where we are sailing today. To bring this closer to my US friends, New York City’s “East River” is not a river at all, it too is a tidal strait, connecting Long Island Sound to New York Harbor (the Strait of Messina connects the Tyrrhenian Sea to the north to the Ionian Sea to the south).

On Saturday, August 17 I made the micro-post Groundhog Day on the tracker on the hjsailing.blog home page. You’ll see it’s just before I made an abrupt (in sailor’s speak) “right hand turn.” I was feeling pretty good about things as I recall, settling down for another windless night but in striking distance of reaching Syracusa the next day (about 35 miles). No wind observed on deck, no wind predicted the next 12 hours, nice dinner and sunset, I set my AIS and radar-guard alarms, and watch timer and get some rest. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, the wind comes; although the wind was not expected, what I did expect when I felt the first zephyrs wafting across the silky calm water is that is would be “on the nose” (blowing directly from Syracusa)—and I was right. The only thing predictable about Mediterranean winds are their unpredictability.

Don’t worry, I was on the radio well in advance of this crossing and I had worked out with the officer of the watch how we would pass.

After tacking back and forth a couple times trying to make some progress as the wind built to an ideal strength (~15 knots). I finally looked at my charts, my next day plans, my subsequent plans, the wind direction and sailing angles we could achieve on both port and starboard tacks (starboard tack would head us south in this instance, and port tack north), and decided to fight fire with fire. I would respond to the Mediterranean’s unpredictability with my own unpredictability. Aloud, I said “_______ it” tacked onto port and headed north towards my original destination of Reggio Calabria. (In case you are wondering, the underlined word is the same word—the one word I’m told—that Robert Redford uses in that movie where the boat sinks. I say “I’m told,” because I’ve never seen it. I make it a point to not watch sailing movies where the boat sinks, which of course means that I don’t watch a lot of sailing movies.)

Departing Pylos, Greece and Navarino Bay.

Although Reggio Calabria was at a range about twice that of Syracusa (70 miles versus 35), the wind angle was much better and reaching Reggio Calabria would set me up better for my subsequent sailing (which I’ll be undertaking shortly).

However twice the range meant that I’d likely not arrive until some time around sunset the next day or into the night (I actually arrived about 0200 local time the next morning). That last day’s sailing was eventful, from light winds to 20-25 knots on a close reach with a short and nasty chop. The kind of upwind sailing where HJ is crashing into the waves at speed and you hope the old-girl will stay together. I had to deal with thunder and lightning, a squall, lots of commercial traffic, and the Italian Coast Guard contacted me directly to keep a sharp watch for a missing windsurfer. I’d find out later that a couple hours after I arrived at the marina is when that big yacht Bayesian tragically sunk off the northwestern coast of Sicily.

The double-entendre of this post’s title relates to the emotional side of singlehanded sailing (at least my singlehanded sailing, I won’t speak for others). I find when the sailing is not high-pressure and does not demand my full attention, my mind is like a cassette tape player—but the only cassettes I have available are short loops that repeat endlessly. The genre of “music” ranges from regrets and remorse, to offenses and anger.

The phrase “Last Day Sailing” is my latest mantra to try to break these loops. What if today were my last day that I could ever sail? Would I worry about these things that repeat in my head? If the answer is “No” (which it inevitably is), Why am I worrying about it or focused on it today?

One of these days I will be right, it will be my last day sailing. I’m pretty confident that that day will be a “natural” ending. That is, I recognize that my body and mind have slipped and I’m not capable of sailing at the level where I want to sail. Or, maybe I look at family and home and say, “I don’t want to do this anymore.” I guess there’s always daysailing around home in a small boat.

Who knows? In the meantime I’ll keep working on my mantra and report back.

Well…I’ve missed my self-imposed deadline so need to get going. Once clear of the Strait of Messina, today‘s plan is to sail west along the north coast of Sicily to the town of Milazzo. From there, I’ll be looking for a safe place to leave Hazel for a few days so I can rent a car and explore Sicily.