A New Lesson in Anchoring

Is there anything more frustrating than doing a thing "by the book" and still running into trouble ?

We thought we knew everything we needed to know about anchoring : Minimum chain-to-depth ratio of 5:1, put the motor in reverse to dig in the anchor, and use a snubber on the chain to take the strain off the windlass. Our trusty Rocna anchor has held us through 30-knot gusts in all types of holding.

So imagine our idignant surprise last week when, despite having a 10:1 chain-depth ratio in sandy mud noted in the guide as excellent holding, we managed to drag our anchor and ended up stuck on a shallow mud bank.

We had been anchored out for 3 days in light to moderate winds that turned slowly in all directions. We even joked as we dined in the cockpit that we had a 360-degree panoramic restaurant.

On the 3rd day an afternoon storm kicked up with gusts up to 25 knots. We were on board and not at all worried. We had out 10:1. We had a Rocna.

I was working in the cockpit when I looked around and noticed that the stone dike around the beach looked much bigger than before. Much much bigger. I called down to Patrick to turn on the navigation instruments and come up fast. The depth sounder showed 1.1 meters, the exact depth of our keel with the centerboard up. We noticed we were perpendicular to all the other boats in the bay and to the wind. We were clearly beached.

We tried to use the motor to push ourselves out but all that nice excellent-holding mud held fast to our rudders and keel. At least this is an advantage of having a boat that can beach – we were simply stuck, but stuck upright, whereas a keel boat would topple over sideways.

We tried pulling and pushing the nose with the dinghy and the boat motor, but 2.5 horsepower vs 20+ knots on 10 tonnes is just not good odds. We knew we had to call for help before the winds pushed us even further up onto the mud bank.

We called the port closest to us where we had spent 4 nights. They were only 200 meters away. They informed us that they were not allowed to intervene and we had to call the mooring assistance service in the major port of the bay. A tragic-comic mélé of vhf and telephone calls ensued in french, italian, and broken english, where we finally had to take time out from our crisis to look up how to say "stuck in the mud". Three cheers for google translate.

A small coast guard vessel showed up for what we can only interpret as moral support. They informed us that the mooring assistance service had to help us but that they were currently out helping another boat. When the MAS arrived, they realized that their boat was too big to safely approach us in shallow water and went back to headquarters to get a shallow-draft vessel.

Once everyone was in place, the actual rescue only took 3 minutes. They tugged and we pushed, a boiling cauldron of mud exploded around the boat, and we were free. (Note : very important to clean the water filter and flush the engine with clean seawater for awhile.) We re-anchored in deeper water, the storm having passed, and then had to take our dinghy to the main port to fill out paperwork and pay the 85 Euro fee.

Lessons ? We suppose that the constant slow piroettes of the boat over 3 days must have "unscrewed" the anchor in the mud. When we pulled it up, there was a large hard ball of clay filling the spade, which would have made it very difficult to dig in again. I guess we’ll have to either dive to verify the holding or pull up and reset the anchor periodically when the boat turns 360s.

Fortunately, we were on board and no other boats were in our path, we have a lifting keel boat that settles instead of topples, and we were pushed onto mud and not rock.

But the best lesson, something we already knew but saw confirmed once again, is that there is a solidarity among the sailing community that warms the heart. As soon as it was clear that we were in trouble, two other dinghies showed up to offer help. Even with 3 small motors pushing, we didn’t solve the problem, but their presence cheered us as we waited and their stories of their own similar misadventures made us feel less stupid. That’s worth 85 Euros any day.

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Fresh Water Pump Problems Resolved

One often hears that cruising is "fixing your boat in exotic locations."  Exotic or not, repairs must be made, and making them in a foreign land and foreign language can be frustrating.  Or not !  Here is a feel-good story about a simple and cheap fix to a big problem.

The pump : Jabsco Par-Max 3.5 fresh water pump (frankly, the following information will apply to any pump).

Important clue : installed on new boat (or boat with new tanks)

Symptoms : After 15 months of loyal service, our water pressure began to decrease. For the first few seconds, the pressure was good, then the flow would slow to a trickle. Even after the tap was turned off, the pump laboured to reach it’s cut off pressure.

And yes, we regularly clean our filter.

Diagnosis : We were lucky enough to be in Pollensa, Majorca (reasonably exotic), berthed just across the street from Astilleros Cabanellas, and had a 2nd stroke of luck to have Senior Cabanellas himself (grandson of the founder) take a look at our problem early one morning. He spoke perfect french and, although we didn’t test him, probably speaks pretty good English, too. If you are planning to have problems in Majorca, have them here. 

He had seen the problem before… especially on new boats. The problem is a blockage in the in-line check valve located upstream of the filter (red arrow in photo below). When the tanks were fixed in the boat and holes drilled into the plastic reservoirs to attach fittings and gauges, the technicians failed to vacuum out the little shavings left behind. Over time, these made their way through the system and got stopped here.

Senior Cabanellas knew exactly where to look, and sure enough, we had a big plastic ball of bits there. He shook his head and said that many shipyards will simply tell you that your pump is going bad and that it needs to be changed. In changing the pump, they open up and clean out the surrounding fittings, so it appears that the problem has been resolved with a new pump when in fact the pump was fine all along.

With the blockage removed and the accumulator tank pressure topped off with our bicycle foot pump, we reprimed the system to chase out the air bubbles and the pressure was as good as new. The pump now runs beautifully, only turning on and staying on half the time it did with the blockage, so we are saving on battery energy as well.

We contacted our Jeanneau boatyard in France to let them know that this was a problem somewhere along their assembly line. They thanked us for the information and are reimbursing our costs. (When we bought our boat, we were told that the 2-year guarantee and the Jeanneau service-after-sales were excellent. Now after 2 years we can tell you it is TRUE!)

Problem resolved in 30 minutes, cost 35 Euros. Happy ending.

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More cruising excitement in Ibiza

We've had an exciting, wonderful, and terrifying few days in Ibiza.

We had friends from Brittany with us for a few days and after picking them up in San Antonio, we sailed south to Cala Hort, where we had spent our first night in Ibiza after the passage from Denia. The holding is good, there was plenty of room, we were protected from the winds, and the water was limpid and turquoise. Patrick decided that the moment was right to attack a jellyfish with his shoulder.

Patrick meets jellyfish.

We had seen a few floating around but it seemed rather easy to avoid them. Patrick swam smack into one judging by his new jellyfish tatoo. Not to make light of it… it hurt like hell and Patrick was quite unwell for an hour or so. I gently wiped the area with a paper towel soaked in vinegar (opinions differ about the use of vineager… probably should have just used seawater), then applied a generous helping of biafine crème (for burns) followed later by another wash and an antihistamine crème with cortisone. Since Patrick had never been stung before and we didn’t know if he would have an allergic reaction, I gave him a big dose of antihistamine and some paracetamol for the pain. After a couple of hours he was feeling well enough to laugh about it.

The next day, with light winds, we decided to take the narrow passage between Vedra and Vedrella islands on our way to Formentera. The winds dictated that we anchor on the west coast and we managed to find a good spot behind the green channel markers not too far from Port Salvina. We weren’t alone but all the boats maintained a respectful distance and half of the boats in the area left by 6 pm. We took the dinghy to the small beach and the beginning of the stone jetty and took a bus tour of the island. The south part of the island is really beautiful but unfortunately we couldn’t take the boat there because of the winds. The best part of the island is the coastal areas and beaches, with really nothing worth visiting inland.

After a couple of days lolling around Formentera, we worked our way north again into the Ensenada of San Antonio and the Cala Bassa. This surely has got to be one of the most beautiful calas of Ibiza. It is crowded and the holding is poor in patches. To anchor with serenity, you have to find a sand patch and they are usually in 10 meters or more. Ashore is the swanky Cala Bassa Beach Club and there is a gorgeous hike around the point over to the west side with beautiful views towards Isle Conejera. The cala is flanked by several grottos large enough for a dinghy.

After a couple days in our new favorite cala, the wind direction made it clear to us that we wouldn’t be taking the boat to the old town of Ibiza on the other side of the island, so we decided to anchor near the San Antonio port and take a bus. Big mistake.

The area east and south of the green channel markers is now laid to buoys so extensively that there is little room to anchor and the holding is poor. After several attempts, we found a good spot and set the anchor well, then left for the day on bus to visit the old town of Ibiza on the other side of the island. I wanted to get back on board by 6 pm because the winds were supposed to get stronger.

We made it back to the boat around 7 pm and by 8 pm the huge 50 foot boat in front of us was dragging his anchor directly back on to us. It happened so fast that we couldn't pick up our anchor to get away since our chain was under his boat and hitting against his keel and rudder. Of course, the owners were not on board.

We let out more chain to try to get away from him and another person came over with a zodiac to try to push him off, but he was too heavy and the winds too strong. I called both ports for assistance and they both said they had no responsibility for people anchored in the bay. After about 20 minutes, the owners came back and pulled away from us then began pulling up their anchor. But they also pulled up OUR anchor in the process, and we slid back onto the boat behind.

Those owners came out with their zodiac to help push us apart, while the guy in the first zodiac went over to the first boat to try to get our 2 anchors unstuck. After more than one hour of battling, we finally got away from everyone and got our anchor back, with no damage and no injuries. One of the more philosophical of the sailors involved told us that it was a good experience.

The chart trace of the battle.

The guys on the boat behind us offered us a mooring buoy of a friend for the night so we had a relatively calm night. Lesson? Don't trust anyone around you? I don't know how you avoid other people's mistakes without becoming completely paranoid. As we discussed options, we decided that if the owners of the first boat had not returned, our best course of action would have been to cut our own anchor line (with several fenders tied to the end to be able to recuperate it later) which would have allowed us to get away from him. Our anchor line may still have been wrapped up around him, but at least we would be free. We would then have to pick up a mooring buoy (risking the wrath of the yacht club) or find a place in port until we could come back for our anchor. Anyway… that didn’t happen and I hope it never does.

Our friends left yesterday and we pulled into the port to fill up with water and food for the next week or so. A gale was foreseen for the next day and the port said it was full, but they would put us on a waiting list. We looked for other options in the bay to shelter from a gale from the west that would turn north during the night, and there were very few possibilities. We checked with the yacht club to see if we could have a mooring buoy and they said we’d have to be on a waiting list for that as well. This morning, gale day, the wind was blowing stronger than foreseen. The good news about that is that the boats that had reserved places were unable to get here, so a spot opened up for us for the night. Whew!! Feeling VERY relieved.

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Finally, Ibiza

After our delay in Denia, we had a choice : motor sail 11 hours (20 litres of diesel / 25 euros) or stay another night in Denia at 40 Euros per night and hope for better winds the following day. Since the forecast was not encouraging, we left at 8:30 a.m. for a very calm day. We pointed our nose in the direction of Cala Hort, a large cove 50 miles from Denia.

We did it !  Es Vedra, Ibiza.

Towering over the Cala is the natural cathedral of Es Vedra, a rock surging out of the southeast coast of Ibiza, once a religious site honoring the goddess Tanit. Our guide also said something about this bay being the little Bermuda triangle of Ibiza, but with no further explanation. I should have paid more attention.

As we arrived, there were only 5 or 6 boats and we found a gorgeous spot in turquoise water surrounded by ocre cliffs and scrub pines. After a celebatory drink, we decided we needed a rest and would stay 2 nights here.

The next morning, I lifted the floor boards between the motor and galley to find, once again, the cans and bottles floating in a puddle of diesel. Re-remove cans, re-pump diesel, re-wash cans, etc. We pumped another 1/4 litre of diesel from the surrounding bilges, cleaned up everything we had touched, and dealt with the slippery greasy pile of wipes, newspapers and bottles. We realize now that the diesel will continue to leak out for quite a while, each time the boat moves in some new way.

Anyway… time for a swim in this gorgeous cove. The fish had already gathered in anticipation of a feeding.

I dove in, felt the diesel and sweat dissolve, my spirits reviving. I pulled on my mask and fins.

That’s when I saw it.

A piece of fishing net, wrapped around the propeller. Shock, fear. How long has that been there ? Is it going to block the propeller ? Is it going to wedge deeper around the shaft and cause a leak ?

Even in warm turquise water this is not a sight anyone ever wants to see...

The next hours were really nasty. I dove and dove and dove and dove (note : need desperately to buy a scuba tank) to pull and cut away as much as a could from the shaft. The biggest part came off easily but a few turns of line were (are) stuck deep under the zinc. The propeller turns, there is no sign of a leak. Exhausted and cold, I decided to stop after about 30 minutes. Patrick poured me a gin-and-tonic with chips to replenish my resources. The alcohol in the gin, the citrus acid in the lime, and the salt of the chips told me I had hundreds of little cuts in my hands from my diving job. I looked at my hands and noticed a big bruise growing on my thumb where I had tightly gripped the pliers to pull out the lines. More gin, please.

The first cut

 After that, I had the bad idea to look under the floor boards again...ya know, just to check. More diesel puddles. Crisis time. Cursing and tears in paradise. Patrick banished me to the cockpit, mopped up the puddle, and went for a swim. We agreed to a 24-hour halt to all propeller or diesel repairs and tried to pretend to be on vacation.

Did I mention that it’s breath-takingly gorgeous here ?

Because of the high cliffs around the bay, our internet was out. We suspected that it was a topographical problem, but the potential stress of losing our link to the outside world just added to our sour moods.

We’ve now moved on to Cala Tarida and have recuperated enough to begin enjoying life again. I’ve cut away as much of the line as possible and am convinced that the remaining frayed bits aren’t causing problems. The diesel continues to leak out at a rate of 1/4 litre per day but we know that it must stop soon. Our internet came back to life as soon as the cliffs got smaller.

Did I mention how beautiful it is here?

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15 Litres of Greasy Yellow Hell

No sooner had I posted the last blog saying something like “thoroughly enjoying ourselves in Denia” than Patrick says “let’s fill up the gas tank from the jerrycans to have a full tank for the trip to Ibiza.” It was almost 9 p.m., the sun was setting, the temperatures were cooling, and we had not yet had dinner. But it’s always good to get those jobs done with before settling down for the evening, right?

We added almost 15 litres to the tank before we heard that characteristic gurgling / burping noise that tells us the tank is full. I went to start dinner while Patrick cleaned up.

When Patrick entered the aft cabin, he says “I smell diesel.” Cue menacing 3-note musical passage of doom.

We immediately opened the sliding hatch that exposes the fuel gauge sensor, which was repositioned in Aguadulce a few weeks ago in an attempt to get more realistic readings from the gauge (it was always reading ¾ full). Diesel was weeping out in waves around the seal. Patrick began frantically tightening the screws and discovered that one of them turned in the void, digging into nothing at all. The other three screws were tight. I pulled back the mattresses and placed dishtowels everywhere to protect the bedding. Clearly, the gauge was badly seated.

This is when we had the bad idea to take out the screws to see what was going on. As Patrick unscrewed the loose screw, a geyser of diesel gushed up to a height of about 15 cm. He put his thumb over the spout and after much kerfuffle we managed to get the screw back in place and the leak reduced to a more manageable hemorage.

We realized we had a big job on our hands so we quickly washed the diesel off our hands and arms and began shifting all the bedding and mattresses to the forward cabin. We then unscrewed the wood planks that cover the gas tank to have a proper access to the problem. The boat started to look like a war zone.

We knew we needed to reduce the pressure on the tank by draining some of the fuel away. We decided to try to siphon off some of the diesel by using our new fuel pump given to us by new sailor friend Johannes in Aguadulce. We stuck the intake tube about 1 meter down into the tank fill hole, plugged the pump into the 12v socket and...(cue sound of crickets)...nothing. No, not nothing. A small click, then nothing. We soon realized we had blown the fuse of the 12 v socket. We reset the fuse and tried again. Same thing. When we pulled the pump tube out of the tank fill tube, it was dry. It wouldn’t have worked anyway. (But Johannes, any ideas of what to try now? It worked so well in Aguadulce !)

Our next trick was to drain off some of the diesel through the fuel filter assembly. This was messy and we probably only managed to capture about half of the diesel in the collection of bowls and cups placed under the filter in the small and irregular spaces available. After what felt like a very long time, the hemorage finally slowed then stopped. It was now 2 a.m. and we still hadn’t eaten dinner.

With the pressure off, we could finally remove the fuel gauge sensor to see what the problem was. The problem was evident: 5 screws, 7 holes. Apparently, the technician in Aguadulce, in repositioning the sensor, created new holes when he screwed it back in place. When the gauge was seated, it managed to cover one of the unused holes, but one was left open to the air. We took photos in disbelief, rescrewed it correctly, covered the patient, and left it for the morning. (What? It IS morning already…).

With 4 or 5 buckets full of diesel, paper towels, sponges, towels, and bowls hauled outside, I began the nasty job of cleaning the greasy diesel off the tank and bilges. The odor was too strong to leave it and just go to bed. I used my Spanish “Fairy” dishwashing liquid, which seems to have a good reputation among cruisers for cleaning up diesel. When I was in college, I worked summers at the Texas A&M Oil Spill Control School in Galveston, Texas, moving boats around to demonstration sites and cleaning up oil spill tanks after student exercises involving dumping a variety of oil into the tanks and trying to contain the spill with absorbent pads or chemical dispersants. What miracle product did we use to clean up crude oil spills? Dawn Dishwashing Liquid, of course. Best stuff ever. Fairy did an okay job, but I would have paid big money for a little Dawn that night.

Patrick limped off to the shower at 3 a.m. I took a rapid sponge bath in the cockpit and made dinner (ham and cheese for him, corn flakes for me). We re-shifted the aft-cabin mattresses to the saloon and dug out a place to sleep in the forward cabin.

The next morning, we went to see the Jeanneau dealer here in Denia and asked to have a technician come by to advise us on what kind of product we could use to fill in the two extra holes, something that works on plastic and doesn’t mind being soaked regularly in diesel. The tech said that Kent’s Assembly Adhesive MS Polymere Multi-usage silicone was the right way to go, and he resealed the gauge using the correct holes this time. He also helped us chase out the air bubble from the fuel lines caused by our using the fuel filter to drain off the diesel. (I am still keeping my fingers crossed that we don’t have some lingering air bubble waiting to choke the motor…). After 24-hours of drying time for the silicone, we timidly refilled the tank from the jerrycan and declared the leak fixed.

The diesel odor lingered. I looked under the floor boards in the bilges again and saw a new puddle of diesel where I had already cleaned ! I quickly realized that there was still much more diesel hiding UNDER the fuel tank and the water tank and in the labyrinth of bilges and drains around the motor compartment, and that it was slowly making itself known each time the boat rocked.

With me watching the bilges, Patrick began rocking the boat outside by leaning in then out from the shrouds, like a kid on a swingset (or seesaw?). The small puddle turned into sloshing waves, and I realized there was more than could be simply wiped up with a sponge.

Patrick pulled out his trusty hand pump that we use for oil changes and we fit a small plastic tube into the larger existing tube to give us a long and flexible intake to snake under the tanks and into the bilge drains. Thus armed, we sucked out a mind-boggling 5 litres more ! After getting out all of the diesel, we decided it was best to flood the area with Fairy liquid in hot water, followed by more rocking the boat. (I’m sure we amused the spectators but no one asked any stupid questions). The odor was still fairly strong, so I attacked again with Don Limpio (Mr. Clean). This time, we were sure, we had pumped out all of the diesel and the odor had disappeared. We slept in the forward cabin again to give the aft cabin time to air out with all of the boards up.

This morning, everything was fresh and dry. As I prepared for a big shopping trip, I pulled up one of the floor boards in the galley to make an inventory of our cans and bottles stored there and… you can guess...DIESEL EVERYWHERE. How could that be??? I already checked that compartment earlier and there was nothing !!! I took everything out, one can at a time, dripping diesel and threw everything onto old newspapers in the cockpit (note: a collection of old newspapers is mandatory cruising kit.) I opened up all of the floorboards in the area and found diesel in 3 other compartments. I called Patrick and his pump back into action and we drained off another 2 litres of a frothy panaché of diesel and Don Limpio. Re-fairy liquid, re-Don Limpio, re-dry, wash the cans and bottles one by one, replace.

But wait… this story just keeps getting better !

A six-pack of coke in its plastic wrapper was thoroughly soaked in diesel. I took a kitchen knife to cut away the plastic and, with the greasy diesel everywhere, the knife slipped and pierced one of the cans. A coke geyser sprayed out but I managed to get my thumb on it fairly quickly. I moved the can into the kitchen sink (bad idea) and it slipped out of my hand. Now the can was REALLY angry and spewed everywhere, like a backyard water toy, spinning and spraying. I took it full in the face first, and groping half-blind, finally managed to grab it and crack it open to release the rest of the pressure. When the battle was over, the sight was truly impressive: small droplets of coke over ½ the saloon ceiling, the curtains, the aft cabin door and wall, the companion ways walls and stairs, and the bathroom door. Did I really need this? I’m just sorry Patrick wasn’t around to see the spectacle.

We are exhausted but we THINK we have finally sopped up the most of the 15 litres we lost. Three days later, I am still finding little coffee-spoon sized puddles here and there and I suspect the battle will continue for quite awhile. We both look like we’ve been in a fight with angry cats with our arms scratched from the wooden compartment hatches into the bilges around the tank and those bloody cut-off tie wraps (why do we insist on cutting them off? Why not just leave those soft dangly bits as they are?) Patrick had a migraine last night from the diesel fumes and I felt like vomiting this morning.

Of course we are complaining to Jeanneau about the technician in Aguadulce who made two extra holes for us. The technician created the problem when the boat was still under warranty, but now the boat is no longer under warranty as the Denia technician tries to repair the mistakes of his colleague. We are arguing with Jeanneau to take this into account, as well as the 2 extra nights we had to spend in port to fix the problem.

Bright side? I have the cleanest bilges ever. Lessons learned? Watch technicians like a hawk, even if it makes them uncomfortable.

Addendum: Bright side Number 2 !! The email written to Jeanneau France got immediate results !! They are going to pay for the work here in Denia, even though the boat in officially no longer under warranty, AND they are going to reimburse us for our extra 2 nights here in the port. Woo Hoo !!

Patrick says we need a vacation.

Just checked the weather for tomorrow. No wind, or light wind in the nose. Oh well – we’ll have to motor most of the way. We have too much diesel on our hands anyway.

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Chipiona and Rota

After the rather barren surroundings of Mazagon, we were looking forward to a little civilization at a summer resort and headed for Chipiona.  We pulled up to the waiting pontoon and Patrick went to the office to register and get a spot.  He came back with a funny look on his face, saying that there were no visitor’s spots available because of work on the docks, but at the last minute they managed to squeeze us into an owner’s spot with the understanding that we had to leave before noon on the next day.  Better than nothing and we enjoyed Chipiona for the evening that we were there.  Nothing special, just charming streets, architecture, restaurants, bars, boutiques, and ice cream shops !

The next small hop down the coast was to Rota.  The marina was practically empty when we arrived and we only saw a couple of non-Spanish boats while we were there.  The town is charming and there is enough to hold your interest for a few days.  When we arrived on a Sunday, we noticed lots of boats moored off the beach between Rota and the US Military naval base on the other side of the small bay.  We decided we would spend our last night there at anchorage.  Bad idea.

Rota Marina

Rota Market

We pulled up around 6pm and anchored about 200 meters from the naval base jetty, where we could see naval ships of all sizes peeking over the breakwaters.  We joked that we were under surveillance and should remain appropriately clothed, and that this would not be the right time to bring out my big camera and start taking pictures.  There were 3 other boats in the area and we settled in happily with sundowners in the cockpit.

Just as the sun was going down, a small high-speed pilot boat came around the corner with a blue siren flashing.  They went to a small fishing boat first (“great…it’s just for that guy who’s too close”) and then they came straight up to us.  With a loud-speaker, they said “Do you speak English?” too which I responded “Yes, I’m an American.” This seemed to puzzle them (or perhaps disappointed them as they were all geared up to harass some French frogs).  The nice young man kindly explained to me that we were too close to the naval station and that we needed to move at least 500 meters away from their jetty.  We moved and put the anchor down just as the sun sank.

Now, surely, they saw where we were… we were on their radar from the beginning.  But they waited until HALF PAST MIDNIGHT to come back to us, sirens and flood lights blaring into our windows, screeching out “You are too close to a US naval installation.” I fumbled around in a panic and pulled on some shorts, stumbled out into the cockpit and we started the whole thing all over again.  “Do you speak English?” “Yes, I’m an American.”  I then explained that his colleague already visited us and told us to move 500 meters from the jetty and that our chart plotter showed that we were more than 500 meters away.  He said that we needed to be east of a red beacon light on the shore, about 200 meters further away.  We turned on the deck lights, dug out our headlamps, and fired up the instruments to prepare to move again.

As we motored to the area they suggested, we noticed that we were getting dangerously close to some rocks.  The other alternative was getting too close to a roped-off beach area, where the risk would be to get the rope wrapped around a rudder in the middle of the night.  Fed up with the whole thing, we just decided to head back to the port of Rota.  It was well-lit and we knew the port already.  We just tied up to the waiting pontoon, pointed ourselves in the departure direction, and set our alarms for a dawn departure.

All of the towns along this coast are proud of their links to Columbus' voyages.  Many crew came from this area.

It turns out that we were happy to have returned to port, since the winds picked up to 15-20 knots unexpectedly during the night.  The next morning, we still had 15 knots and quite a lot of swell and chop to push through, but we just gritted our teeth and pushed through the 5 miles to Cadiz.  The military had a last parting gesture for us, though.  They patrol a large square area in front of their base that is marked on the charts but with no indication that we are not allowed to pass.  However, as we headed on a direct route for Cadiz, we noticed the warship turned to intercept us and turned its stern to clearly indicate the limit of their zone.  We tacked out to make a large swing around their zone and were very relieved to be finished with that area.  When we arrived in Cadiz, we had an email waiting for us.  The port of Rota noticed we had spent the night (from 1:30 am to 7:30 am) on their waiting dock and said we could pay the 30 Euro fee in Cadiz if we preferred.  You can run but you can’t hide.

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Lagos

We had been looking forward to Lagos.  This is a spot where many sailors winter-over and we have friends from Brittany who love this spot.  It is beautiful and the weather is perfectly hot and dry, the water is turquoise.  After our overly-physical departure from the Sagres Ensenada in the morning, we pulled into Lagos thinking the worst of our day was over (see previous post).  We were wrong.

The beautiful Algarve coast around Lagos.

The long welcome dock was full and we had to raft up next to another boat.  We missed the approach on the first attempt because the wind shoved us too fast and at a bad angle into the other boat and we had to rapidly put the boat in reverse to keep from doing damage.  Once in reverse, the wind and currents took us on a bizarre ride and threatened to push us over to the rocks on the other side of the narrow channel.  We finally got control of the situation and made a gentler approach, tied up, and checked in at the marina. 

Patrick requested a spot with good internet reception.  He still hasn’t learned.  This almost always means going deep into the finger berths and getting into a spot meant for smaller boats near the dock entrance.  I’m going to start announcing to marinas “we are an 11-meter boat AND WE DO NOT HAVE A BOW THRUSTER !!”  Our first arrival was just perfect, except that we were in the wrong spot.  We were in a spot for the many tourist boats that take people to visit the grottos.  We had to move.  The wind was 15 knots from ahead.  Patrick asked the marina for assistance to get into the slot next to us because it was a tight squeeze to back the boat out, and with stiff cross-winds, we worried about our maneuverability.  Two guys from the marina came out and expected that all they would have to do is shove us off and take our lines in the new spot.  Patrick backed the boat out and the wind immediately took the nose and pushed her over onto the boats on the other pontoon faster than we could react.  Once pinned against the other boats, their anchors scraping on our hull, there’s not much we could do.  People came running from everywhere, yelling, screaming, pushing, shoving, yanking.  We got Mareda off the line of boats and once into the middle of the fairway, the wind shoved her right back before we could even slam the motor into gear.  One guy asked if our bow thruster was broken.  Finally, one of the smaller tourist rib boats came out and took our lines and towed us free, and once Mareda was properly lined up and the motor engaged, we managed to pull into the assigned spot.  The hundreds of on-lookers from the terrace restaurants cheered.  We were traumatized and mortified.

In the end, there was no damage to the other boats, our gelcoat had a few superficial scratches, and the iroko-wood rub rail has a big gash in it, but it could have been much worse.  We hung our heads low and tried to make ourselves invisible for the rest of the day.

Our efforts were not even rewarded.  The internet was crap, the showers were cold, and we got blasted by “Karaoke night” from the bar next door.  For this, we’re paying 47 euros a night – the most expensive port so far.  We were so looking forward to visiting Lagos and now we can only think of how to slink out of here as soon as the winds calm down.  Yes, yes, I know: “Get over yourselves.  You’re not the first to screw up a maneuver; it’s not the first time and it won’t be the last time.”  Easier said than done.  

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Nazare, Berlengas, and a Predicament

The trip from Fig da Foz to Nazare was disappointing as the expected 12 knots of wind never materialized and we ended up motoring most of the day.  (Like a friend jokes: “everyone talks about apparent wind… I’ve been sailing for over 30 years and I’ve never seen it…”) 

The Club Naval of Nazare has a nice marina although the shore-side facilities are very basic.  A 15-minute walk into town brings you to a lively fishing port that has turned into a summer resort area.  Not only has Nazare not forgotten its traditional fishing past, it has integrated it into modern tourism.  (See photos… very surprising!)

Nazare Beach

Widow selling dried fish and octopus (to whom and for what remains a mystery...)

Yum !

The last traditional fishing boat to work the area.  Tall noses means big swell.

Nazare ladies knitting and renting out their apartments to tourists.

Fish drying in the sun on Nazare beach.

Just can't imagine what one does with dried octopus...

We stayed in Nazare just long enough to rest and resupply and then headed down to the Ilas Berlengas, a UNESCO Biosphere Reserve and a supposedly excellent mooring to avoid the dreaded Peniche marina further down the coast.

We put up the main and the genoa for the short sail to the islands and when the speed fell below 3 knots, we fired up the Yanmar.  A moment of inattention (adjusting the solar panels) led to disaster.  I was down below writing in the log and I heard a clunk against the hull.  A few seconds later, I heard a panicky “Merde !” from on deck. 

I jumped out onto the cockpit and saw a fishing pot being towed behind the boat.  We quickly put the motor into neutral and rolled up the genoa, then let loose the mainsail to stop the boat.  For the next 10 minutes, we tried everything we could to push the line off our port-side rudder, even breaking our beloved “moor fast” boat hook.  I was getting ready to dive into the water to pull it off manually (stupid, stupid idea…), when it dawned on us that we should just cut the bloody line.  I know it’s not nice for the fisherman, but I wasn’t going to take any unnecessary risks.  The line cut easily, but was under too much tension to hold and tie to the floater with the flag on it, so we just let it all go.  We noted our position with the GPS and emailed Nazare marina with the details.  In France, the fishermen sometimes request payment for such damages.  So far, no news.

We quickly forgot our worries as we realized the boat was fine and a pod of dolphins came out to play.  That just never gets old, no matter how many times you see it.

Dolphin escort to the Ilas Berlengas

Berlengas was beautiful but disappointing.  The nautical guide said we could drop the anchor in 7 meters of water.  When we arrived, we were greeted by a field of mooring buoys for local fishermen and tourist boats.  A traffic zone had been defined between this mooring field and the coast, and there was no possibility to anchor in less than 15 meters of water (safe mooring means putting out a length of chain equal to 3 or 4 times the depth).  We only have 40 meters of chain so we did what we could, knowing we would stay on the boat (and I would stay nervously in the cockpit most of the afternoon).  We realized we couldn’t stay the night like that, and I finally hailed a local tourist boat and asked if we could use one of the mooring buoys for the night.  He pointed out 3 buoys that were appropriate for larger boats like ours and said we could tie up from 6:30 p.m. to 9 a.m.  Other boats evidently knew this as well and by the time 6:30 rolled around there was only one mooring buoy left and it was rather exposed.  We spent a very lumpy, rolly night at anchor and left earlier than planned for the long hop down the coast to Cascais.

Panoramic shot of Berlengas ... click to expand.

Homework in paradise, planning tomorrow's sail...

And now we are in beautiful Cascais (one guide book calls it the St Tropez of Portugal!), and looking at the calendar to see how to organize our time in the Lisbon area.  If weather is no limitation, we should be in good shape for making it to the Algarve by the beginning of August, our self-imposed-for-no-real-reason schedule.

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Continuing Education

Every day of sailing is the same: learn, learn, learn.  We thought we knew our home waters of the Morbihan Gulf well, but this week, we’ve learned quite a few lessons about the gulf, about Mareda, and about ourselves.  Some of those lessons have been painful.

We took advantage of blustery weather and impending repairs in Vannes to spend some time getting reacquainted with the gulf.  The gulf is listed as one of the 50 most beautiful bays in the world and is said to have a different island for every day of the year.  (I believe the official total, however, is around 80.)  A lifting keel opens up numerous possibilities in the gulf and we set out to explore areas we haven’t visited in over 10 years.  We hid behind Irus Island for a night when the winds were blowing strongly from the south and took a lovely day sail around Arz Island with a stop at Ilur island, which everyone says is a paradise and which we found to be only so-so. 

Our recent escapades in the gulf.  Red marks from left going clockwise are Ile aux Moines, Ile Irus, Les Logodens, and Ile Ilur.

And then we did what we’ve already done numerous times: stopped for the night along the floating docks at Ile aux Moines.  But this time, we pulled in during mid-tide when currents are at their strongest.  To get to the docks, you first have to weave your way through a maze of a mooring buoy field, where the currents push you sideways as if you were on a conveyor belt running perpendicular to where your nose is pointed.  This conveyor belt also runs at strange angles to the docks.   

Promotional photo of Ile aux Moines, where you can see the mooring field and 2 small floating docks and the bottom left of the field.

With 20 knots of wind blowing, we lined up to the dock head-to the wind and current…or so we thought.  As soon as Patrick reduced the throttle, the current took hold of us and slammed us into the corner of the dock.  Clearly, this is something that happens regularly, since the wood protecting the corners of the dock have been splintered to bits, exposing a sharp metal corner.  Once so engaged, it’s almost impossible to pull away from the dock.  Neighboring boaters nervously popped out of their boats to see what was happening and rushed over to help us with our lines.  We slid and scraped our way alongside the dock and tied up as quickly as we could, thanking our new neighbors for the help and trying to downplay our embarrassment.  One old sailor tried to ease the tension and told us, “You know, a successful docking manoeuvre is a tragedy for the spectators !”     

Once everyone had gone back to their boats, we took a deep breath and stepped off the boat to survey the damage:  one big deep wound in the gel coat exposing the fiberglass, a long shallow scrape running about 60 centimeters, and 2 very bruised egos.  Say what you will, it’s much more embarrassing to screw up in a flashy new boat than with a modest-looking old one.

Two days later, with the winds still howling, we decided to leave the dock to get closer to Vannes for an early morning arrival.  We thought we could find a free mooring buoy behind the Logoden islands that would be reasonably sheltered.  Leaving the Ile aux Moines docks, we had strong currents pinning us to the dock again.  We tried our best to get the nose to pivot away from the dock by putting the motor in reverse and pulling against the stern spring line, but that was only marginally successful.  Patrick had to gun the throttle as quickly as possible once the nose was away from the dock, but we still had a hard time turning away.  The owner of the big fancy motor yacht in front of us turned pale as we brushed past his boat at 3 knots with only about 50 centimeters to spare.  Our bruised egos take another sharp punch.

When we arrived at the mooring buoy behind the Logoden islands, we turned into the wind (18 knots) and current (2.5 knots), motored up to the buoy and successfully passed our line through the metal ring on top of the buoy after 2 attempts.  But as we cut the throttle and pulled the line through the hook and back onto the deck, the current and wind pushed us back rapidly.  With all of Patrick’s force and a ½ turn already around the cleat, he was straining to try to keep it from being ripped out of his hands.  I ran forward to help him, got my hand on the lines and pulled as well. 

Mistake !  I SHOULD HAVE put the motor in gear and advanced towards the buoy to take the strain off. 

Four hands grabbed onto the small length of line that remained.  When our grunting and cursing drowned out the sound of the howling wind, I told Patrick to just let it go… it was useless.

I dashed back to the helm, but not fast enough.  The currents had turned us sideways and I was close to broad-siding another boat.  My reaction (again, not the right one) was to kick the fenders overboard to protect the hull.  Patrick (correctly) took the helm and pushed the motor into high gear (I hate doing that) to get us out of the buoy field, with only centimeters to spare.  We quickly agreed that we weren’t going to try to pick up the buoy again, since the currents and wind were clearly too stiff for us to spend anything resembling a calm night there anyway.

As the adrenaline died down and we headed towards Vannes, we both noticed we had pain around our wrists.  I had a bloody gash and swelling on mine where my hand was caught between the line and the navigational light on the balcony.  Thankfully I was wearing sail gloves or it would have been worse.  Patrick had a few mysterious red friction burns around his wrist…and NO WATCH.  Apparently it got snagged in the line and went overboard in the struggle.

We motored on to the waiting dock for the port of Vannes and tied up, defeated.  The waiting dock is a great option for early entry to the port (which is barred by a bridge with only a few openings per day around high tide).  But it’s also not free for a night stay, which just added salt to our wounds.

And now, we’re settled into Vannes for the next few days waiting for the steering wheel pinion system to be replaced (and to carry out a rapid gel coat repair…)  The part ordered by the shipyard wasn’t the correct one, and so we are staying in port courtesy of Jeanneau, with the promise that the correct part will arrive in 2 days.  This suits us just fine as it is still blowing a gale out there and we would have been faced with at least 2 more days of trying to hide behind various islands, coping with strong winds and currents everywhere we turn.  The lessons learned were good ones, but I’m in no hurry to try to prove to myself that we won’t make the same mistakes again. 

I've also learned another thing about the gulf in writing this blog post: despite having sailed here for more than 10 years and lived here for 6, I have very few photos of the gulf !  Must remedy that...

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There's a reason it's called WATCH !

I was, admittedly, watching my kindle when it happened, but I swear I was looking up with each new page.  With no wind and an oil-smooth sea, we were motoring and the pilot was steering.  Patrick was napping below and we were having a lovely day.

Leaving Santander.

BAM !  thump thump thump, followed by the screeching motor alarm, signaling its displeasure at being stopped with the key still in the ignition.  Patrick bounded up on deck and stopped the alarm and we both looked behind us, already knowing what had happened.

Behind us was a 30 meter trail of fishing net, snagged around our keel and (worse) the propeller.  With the boat hook, we pulled as much of the net on board as possible.  I put the swim ladder in the water and stripped down to my knickers, then eased waist deep into the water to see if I could simply pull the net free.  No go.  With the boat hook, I tried pushing it off of the rudder.  I leaned over as far as I could go and almost had it free.  BAFFFF ! then a long slow hiss.  Always conscious of safety, I was still wearing my life vest when I went down the ladder.  As I leaned over, the edge of my vest touched the water and the automatic inflation mechanism activated, puncturing the CO2 cartridge and blowing up the vest around my ears.  Okay, sometimes notions of safety need to be adapted to a particular situation.

Oops...

I climbed back on board and stripped down properly this time, outfitted with a short wetsuit and snorkeling gear.  It was a sunny day, the water was warm (ish) and, with no swell, there was no reason not to take a look under the boat.  We tied a line to a fender and trailed that out behind the boat so that I would have something to grab on to if the boat started drifting.

The sight was beautiful and horrifying at the same time.  In 200 meters of water and with bright sunshine overhead, the water was a beautiful cobalt blue and visibility was excellent.  The vision, however, was disheartening.  The net was wrapped around the keel, the rudder, and firmly twisted around the propeller shaft.  With our best bad-ass knife strapped to my thigh, I first slid the net off the keel and the rudder.  That was the easy part.  I gave a few tugs on the line wrapped around the propeller shaft but it was so tightly wound that I couldn’t even budge it. 

Part of the 30 meters of fishing net we snagged.  

I cut away the rest of the net, leaving a 1 meter section of line on each side of the shaft and we hoisted the smelly mess on board to get it out of the way.  I dove down and tried to un-wrap the line wound around the shaft, but in the water, you have no leverage,  so my little girly tugs were getting us nowhere.  Cutting it away bit by bit would have taken forever and I knew I wouldn’t be able to keep free-diving repetitively for long without getting over-tired.  I needed some leverage, so I tried a new maneuver:  swim under, flip upside down, place one palm and then the other on the underside of the boat, grab the line between my legs and PULL!  One turn around the shaft popped free but there were still 3 turns firmly twisted.  I swam over to the other side of the boat (resting at the swim ladder in between each dive) and did the same trick.   The next twist popped free.  Three more round-trips and it was all clear.

The last messy smelly bits.

We pulled everything out of the water and tried to figure out what to do with it.  I wanted to keep it on board (trophy?) so that wouldn’t get caught around the next guy’s propeller but it was too big to stuff in the chain locker or store on board.  We tried calling the Coast Guard to signal where it was but they never responded.  (Hmmm...  glad we didn’t need them to come get us!).  So we tied the loose ends together so that at least the net wouldn’t drift in long filaments and I attached a few empty water bottles to keep it floating at the surface rather than drifting just below the water as it had been.  Of course, Patrick wasn’t buying into my theory and said that the net probably WAS floating at the surface and would have been visible if I hadn’t been too busy reading on my WATCH!  But since I redeemed myself by cleaning up my own mess, he decided not to harass me about it further.

So much for a relaxing sunny motor-sail to the next port.  For the next 6 hours, we kept a vigilant watch, popping our heads out of the cockpit like startled meer-cats, dodging every speck of flotsam and jetsam floating anywhere within our field of view, sure that it was another net.  I had been told that if we sailed long enough in these waters, we would eventually get something caught around the propeller but I thought we’d have a longer grace-period than we did. 

In any case, we’ll say it was a good experience and we got a good story out of it.  When Patrick retells the story now, he has me jumping naked off the side of the boat with the knife in my teeth, a much better version than the one that has me first easing into the water from the swim ladder with my life vest still on.  People around the docks have been coming up to me and shaking my hand, calling me “the diver.”  It’s funny and embarrassing but much less traumatizing than the storm.

We've been in Gijon for 5 days now, waiting for the weather to cooperate to continue our route west to the high rias. We aren't complaining, though.  Gijon is a good place to be stuck for a few days.

Gijon.

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