Land Cruising: March in Morocco

During our first 18 months of the cruising life on Spray, we have come to realize that sailing in Europe (including the Mediterranean) means that our live-aboard lifestyle will be limited to 6-7 months of the year.  Rather than resign ourselves to 6 months of relative hibernation with an occasional cold wet blustery sail to local areas already thoroughly explored, we decided to use our winter months to “land cruise,” to explore parts of the world not easily accessible by sail. 

And nothing says “opposite of winter sailing” like the Sahara Desert.

At the end of February, we will head off for a one-month circuit of Morocco.  Land cruising has a lot in common with sea cruising: stage planning, decisions based on weather, self-sufficiency and coping with surprises, managing long-distance and often troublesome communications, the excitement of discovery and a bit of anxiety about the unknown.  Let's hope it doesn't also include emergecy repairs to a diesel engine. 

For Morocco, we’ve been warned about aggressive hawkers, harassment, pickpockets, terrorists, corrupt police and their surprise inspections of tourists’ cars (looking for, and always finding, infractions), poor roads, infectious water, unsanitary conditions, and pedestrians who decide to throw themselves into the path of tourists’ cars in order to get an indemnity for bodily injury (payable on the spot).  I suspect this last one is a sort of gung-ho traveller’s legend, along with the one that warns of men who throw nail-studded planks under your car to burst your tires and then direct you to their cousin’s garage, conveniently located just around the corner. 

But we’ve heard far more compelling stories about the breathtaking beauty of the country, its historical and cultural marvels, and the legendary warmth and hospitality of its people.  Edith Wharton said it best: “One of the great things about travel is that you find out how many good, kind people there are.”  That’s gotta be worth a friendly bribe or two.

Our Morocco Circuit: starting in Marrakesh and traveling roughly counter-clockwise

Marrakesh

We’ll begin our circuit in Marrakesh, a World Heritage site chosen for its masterpieces of North African architecture and art, with its labyrinth of narrow streets, bazaars and souks, palaces, gardens, ramparts, and squares, clothed in an overdose of colours, sounds, smells, tastes, and sensations that our French guidebook calls “violent”.  We fully expect to be overwhelmed in both good and bad ways.

The Atlantic Coast

Leaving behind the bustle of Marrakesh, we’ll cross over to the Atlantic coast, stopping first in port city Essaouira, a World Heritage site also known as Mogador, the ancient Portuguese military and trading port that linked North Africa to Europe beginning in the 16^th century.  Today Essaouira is a seaside tourist destination particularly appreciated for its beaches and ever-present winds (great for wind surfing), its medina (old city center) and fish market, and its art and North African music scene.  From here, we will wander up the Atlantic coast, taking in the beauty of the rugged coastline and making short stops in Oualidia (called the St. Tropez of Morocco by one guidebook) and Safi (known for its artisan pottery quarter) on our way to the historical fortified Portuguese port city of El Jadida, yet another World Heritage site.

Rabat and the Imperial Cities

Continuing up the Atlantic coast and circumventing Casablanca (saw the movie), we will begin exploring the Imperial Cities, the historic capitals of Morocco.  Along with Marrakech, Rabat, Fez and Meknes make up the quartet, with Rabat serving as Morocco’s current capital.  Rabat is also a World Heritage site, heralded for its unique early 20^th century town planning that harmoniously mixes the old and the new, protecting the architectural treasures of the Maghreb culture in a thoroughly contemporary city.

Leaving Rabat, we will head west to Meknes and Fez, with stops in Volubilis (largest site of Roman ruins in Morocco) and Moulay-Idriss (holy city and sanctuary of the first Muslim sultan).  The medina of Meknes, a World Heritage site, will be a warm up for the World Heritage city of Fez, considered to be the jewel of Moroccan culture, not only for its rich architectural and artistic heritage, but also for its historic role as the birthplace of religious and intellectual thought and home to the oldest university in the world.

Middle and High Atlas Mountains to the Ziz Gorge

Having gorged ourselves on culture in the first part of our voyage, we will begin moving south, climbing over the Middle and High Atlas Mountains to explore the marvels of mother nature.  Our first stop is Azrou and one of the largest cedar forests in North Africa, home to both large populations of nesting storks and Barbary apes.  The next few stages will depend on the weather, as snow can still be a problem in the high mountain passes during late February and early March.  From Azrou, if weather permits, we will push on to Midelt at an altitude of 1488 meters. This altitude and a handful of gemstone vendors are the highlights of Midelt.  However, Midelt is blessed by its location along National Route 13, approximately 4 hours’ drive from Fez, which is the limit we set ourselves for maximum daily travel time.  From Midelt, we climb briefly into the High Atlas Mountains before beginning a slow descent to the Ziz Gorge area, nestled between arid desert mountains, palm oasis, and the river bed. 

The Southern Oasis Region to the Sahara Desert

Ar-Rachidia marks the end of the Ziz Gorge area and the beginning of the Southern Oasis route to Tafilalt, the largest oasis region of Morocco.  On the road map, this route is shown as a string of green valleys dotted with palm trees in a sea of arid desert landscapes.  At the end of this route is the town of Merzouga on the edge of the Erg Chebbi (Chebbi dunes), one of only a small number of dune systems of the Sahara Desert in Morocco.  We will stay one night in a family pension in Merzouga and then head off on camels into the dunes to spend a night in a tent village campsite under the stars.  We were warned that unaccustomed western butts can only take 2 hours of camel riding per day, so we will only venture out a little distance one day, back the next.

The Gorges to the Atlas Mountain Hollywood

From here we’ll head east along the High Atlas valley to two gorgeous gorge areas, Todra (night stop in Tinerhir) and Dades (night stop in Boumalne), continuing eastward along the serpentine route through the Dades valley to the cities of Skoura, Ouarzazate and Ait-Benhaddou.  After several days spent absorbing the dazzling natural splendour of the Atlas mountains and southern oasis region, Ouarzazate promises to be a complete change of pace.  It’s principle claim to fame is the Atlas Film Studios, a favourite Hollywood backdrop for desert-inspired films, including Lawrence of Arabia, The Last Temptation of Christ, The Man Who Would Be King, The Mummy, Gladiator, Black Hawk Down, The Kingdom of Heaven, Kundun, and Game of Thrones, among others.  To avoid the shock of transition from natural splendour to commercial kitch, we’ll push on to the World Heritage fortress village of Ait-Benhaddou located along the ancient caravan route from the Sahara to Marrakesh. 

The Anti-Atlas

Leaving the valley (a relative term at over 1000m elevation) at Ait-Benhaddou, we will begin our climb up over the Anti-Atlas Mountains (weather permitting) through the Tizi-n-Bachkoum pass (1700m), past the town of Tazenakht (brief stop to visit the carpet weaving cooperatives), then east over the Tizi-n-Ikhsane (1650m) and Tizi-n-Taghatine (1886m) passes to the town of Taliouine, the saffron capital of Morocco.  Continuing eastward and down, we will head to Taroudant, the “little Marrakech” and the nearby palm oasis at Tioute.   

The Big Decision

From Taroudant, we have a big decision to make, depending on the weather, our level of fatigue, and our courage.  To reach Marrakesh, we have two options.  One is to take the highway east to the coastal port city of Agadir and then head west on another highway to Marrakesh.  The other option is to head directly up and over the High Atlas mountains through the Tizi-n-Test pass (2092 m), one of the most spectacular mountain routes in Morocco but also one listed on a web-site called “dangerous roads dot org”.  Friends have done it and said that if the roads are passable, this can be done in a basic rental car and is not particularly difficult if you have nerves of steel and liberally use your horn.  If the roads are not passable, there is a barricade system that officially shuts them down before you get too far down the road.  If we do make it over, we’ll stop at the 12^th century Tin Mel mosque and spend a night either in Ijoukak or in the Alps-like town of Ouirgane.  Total driving time, depending on Patrick’s nerves, weather and road conditions, will be between 5-8 hours (225 km) with lots of stops. We may take up smoking for this stretch.  Otherwise, the mostly uninteresting tourist megapole of Agadir and its warm year-round beaches will be our last stop before completing the loop back to Marrakesh.         

We have no intention of taking a computer with us on this trip, so reports from the road will have to wait until we get back or for the occasional internet café or connection from a hotel computer.  I’m excited about that aspect of being out there, disconnected and off-line, although we will try to be diligent about sending a little email home when we can to ward off the worries.  

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Ship Shape ?

We’ve just returned from one week of skiing, where I’ve discovered that I am in “ship shape”, which is to say, poor shape for active sports.   

 

The Savis trail, Ax-Les-Trois-Domaines, Pyrenees.

Our past 5 months on the boat have been active, but clearly not enough to maintain our pre-cruising life physical condition.  Patrick and I are both former marathoners, and I still run the equivalent of a marathon per week…when I’m not on the boat.  This last week of skiing made me realize that I’ve lost a lot of conditioning this year as the result of our time at sea, and something must be done.

This revelation may provoke a “well, duh” response from many, who rightly reason that sitting on a boat can’t maintain your physique in the same way that running does.  The problem is that after a long day of sailing, you genuinely feel tired.  You move and fidget all day long, adjusting sails, winching in sheets, and running stairs as you make the round-trip from the cockpit to the chart table countless times.  Exposure to sun and wind also contributes to a feeling of tiredness.  When we are in port, Patrick and I almost always pull out the bikes and explore the area, cycling between 15 – 30 kilometers (~10 – 20 miles) each outing, and on folding bikes, that’s pretty good exercise.  But clearly it’s not enough of the right kind.

There are numerous articles and work-out plans for staying fit at sea (see The Monkey’s Fist topic for some great articles). My strategy will be a simple one:  take my running shoes cruising with me…and then, of course, use them.

       

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Continental Pole Confidential

As we start our southward migration without reliable internet, here is a little story I wrote about one of our first sails in Brittany.  Y'all can chew on this for a week or so until we can post news from the land cruise.

This story has now been publisehd in The Island Review Magazine (June 2014).

* * *

“There she is! Mysterious Dumet Island!”  Yves, blue eyes sparkling mischievously, pointed to a rather unimpressive brown slab appearing on the horizon beyond our bow.

I squinted at it intently, searching for some physical oddity or telepathic emanations.  As we sailed closer, the slab transformed into a half-moon bay with a bright ribbon of sand and turquoise water protected by dark, jagged rocks.

 Still squinting, I turn to Yves.  “Okay, I give up.  Why is it mysterious?”

“Oh, there are so many stories, you know,” he said excitedly.  “They say the island was the site of some ancient druid cult with mystical powers, and during the war, there were secret military experiments here.  It was forbidden to go anywhere near the island for years.”

This was my first time sailing with Yves, but I already understood that this spirited octogenarian loved telling tall tales.  I looked dubiously at Luke, our skipper for this day sail, for some indication of whether or not I should just politely let this drop and go down below to start preparing lunch.

“No, it’s true,” said Luke.  “For several decades after the war, a couple of elderly mystics lived there as caretakers, searching for some sort of paranormal source of power on the island.” 

With growing exasperation, I pressed for details, but after several volleys of one-line teasers, each more bizarre than the last, I realized that I was unlikely to get anything resembling a coherent account from either of these two.

Although we had only recently moved to the south coast of my husband’s native Brittany in France, I was already getting used to the legends and folklore that saturate every rock, island, or inlet along the coast.  The caves and grottoes cut into Brittany’s rugged coastline are passageways to the land of the Korrigans, diminutive nocturnal sprites of repugnant physical appearance and unpredictable character who enjoy frightening humans and occasionally swapping their ugly babies for more attractive human ones. 

The coastline of the Korrigans.

Inside a Korrigan grotto.

The Bretons also have their own Atlantis myth, a sunken city called Ys (pronounced eez), traditionally situated in the Douarnenez Bay to the northwest, but with at least a dozen other islands and coastal sites contending for the title. Sometime around 400 B.C.E., Ys was one of the world’s most beautiful and advanced civilisations, protected from the sea by a large dike and lock system.  The devil, in the form of a charming knight, seduced the King’s young but sexually-perverse daughter and convinced her to steal the key to the lock system from her father.  In short order, the city was sunk and the King’s daughter transformed into a malevolent mermaid who still unleashes her wrath on mariners sailing these waters.  As an aside, the legend tells us that the bodies of her lover-victims are piled up in a ravine in the eerily beautiful river valley of the Huelgoat forest, having its own share of mysteries.

With one of the largest concentrations of megaliths in the world and human settlement that spans the last 7000 years, Brittany has no lack of fodder for fantastic fables.  But unlike the typical Breton tales involving fairies, druids, sorcerers, and trolls, my crewmates’ stories of Dumet Island were peppered with more modern and possibly verifiable enigmas.

We furled the sails and motored slowly up to anchor just off the beach.  What was immediately mysterious to me was that we had such a postcard-perfect beach to ourselves. Yves had mentioned earlier that this was a forbidden zone during the war, and I began to wonder if we were even supposed to be here at all, frightfully aware that breaking-the-rules-when-one-is-almost-certain-not-to-be-caught is a favourite French pastime.  The solitude was, however, anything but silent, with hundreds of screeching gulls signalling their collective indignation at our presence until one of them apparently suggested to the others that we might be sloppy eaters and they rapidly formed a more congenial greeting committee flotilla at our stern. 

Peeking up over the dune grass and wind-carved hedges were the remains of a small square fort that from the sea looked like something a child might draw; a perfectly square block with a square opening in the center and two arched windows on either side.  In response to my dismissive musings, I was informed that this was, in fact, a fort designed by Sebastian Le Prestre Vauban, King Louis XIV’s military architect, whose fortresses around France are widely considered to be some of the finest examples of military architecture anywhere, many of which are now UNESCO World Heritage Sites.

Vauban fort at Dumet.

Close-up of Vauban fort at Dumet.

 

Sobered, I pointed to another circular construction sitting out on one of the spits of land encircling the harbour, which our coastal pilot guidebook identified as the ruins of the Fort Ré, built in 1756.

 

Fort Re

Fort Re

Pleasantly anesthetized by the sun and the wine, lulled by the gentle rocking of the boat, I was thoroughly pleased with my discovery of this little jewel of an island, now protected as a bird sanctuary.  I was, however, wholly unsatisfied with the unresolved mysteries and unfinished stories surrounding it.  As we finished our long languid lunch in the cockpit and headed home, I set myself the task of filling in the missing bits of the story so that I could regale my next crew with a more compelling tale.  

Long languid lunch at Dumet Island.

* * *

In carrying out my mission, I fully expected to stumble onto the typical fairy-laden fantasies to explain the stories that had been passed on to me.  Instead, my first finding was that mysterious little Dumet Island is, in fact, the geodesic pole of the world’s land masses.

In 1912, French physicist Alphonse Berget addressed the French Academy of Sciences to demonstrate that if you define a hemisphere on the globe that places the maximum of Earth’s land masses in one half of the globe (the continental hemisphere) and the maximum of water mass on the other half (the oceanic hemisphere), the pole of the continental hemisphere is located at 47° 24’ 42” North, 2° 37’ 13” West, or bang on top of little Dumet Island, measuring a mere 450 feet wide by 1800 feet long.  This finding came at a pivotal time in geodesic science as the nations of the world (or at least the French) were still settling the issue of the Prime Meridian.  Following the 1884 International Meridian Conference where the Prime Meridian was established in Greenwich, England, the French continued to use their own Paris Meridian for time keeping purposes until 1911, and didn’t get around to adopting the Greenwich Meridian for geodesic referencing until 1914.  While a world at war provided the winning argument for adopting a global standard system of geodesy, the 1912 sinking of the Titanic may also have contributed to convincing the French to accept Greenwich as the universal geodesic reference point, when it was realized that the telegram sent from the French vessel La Touraine warning the Titanic of icebergs in the area had issued this warning using Greenwich Mean Time but with locations still referenced to the Paris Meridian. 

The 1912 discovery of Dumet Island as the pole of the continental hemisphere may have helped soften the blow over the loss of the Prime Meridian.  While the French would be losing the honour of having the 0° meridian running through Paris, they may reasonably have hoped that Dumet Island, as the most central point to the majority of other inhabited parts of the globe, would be adopted as a sort of zero point for calibrating a system of universal time and distances.  Several months after Berget’s finding was announced, France hosted the first International Conference on Time, where they proposed the Paris Observatory as the global central time office with the Eiffel Tower serving as the most powerful wireless transmitter in Europe, with the argument that the installations in Paris were the closest to the continental pole capable of carrying out such a mission. Sadly, owing to the outbreak of World War I, the Convention was never ratified, but by general agreement, the Paris Observatory established the International Time Bureau and began carrying out its mission of calibrating time and distance.

In the wake of war, however, the discovery of the continental pole became little more than a geographic curiosity and quickly faded from memory.  In 1945, the work of Berget was further refined by the American geographer Samuel Boggs, who confirmed Berget’s triangular area estimation for the pole, but located his pole in the city of Nantes.  In 2000, an undocumented and possibly farcical claim put the location of the pole at the site of the newly-opened Cyber-Laundromat in the town of Damgan, about 7 miles north of Dumet Island.

But druids, mystics, and paranormal powers?  Where did those stories come from?  It is understandable that once the island was conferred the title of Ombilicus Mundi (the world’s bellybutton), it was also granted special powers as a center for all things mystical. To my surprise, however, many of the legends surrounding Dumet pre-date its discovery as the center of Earth’s landmasses. 

Like many sites along Brittany’s coast, the Dumet area has been inhabited since the Neolithic period, and over the centuries has been a magnet for both religious and military invasions.  Celts, Gauls, and Romans slept here, and according to legend, the Druids established an important religious site on the island.  One Dumet myth speaks of a cult of women priestesses called the Samnites who lived on the island and who, during one special day of the year, would destroy and then rebuild the roof of their temple before nightfall.  During this frenetic construction, if anyone dropped her building materials, she was immediately torn apart by her sisters as a human sacrifice. It has been suggested that this cult was linked to the ancient Celtic holy festival Samhain, held on the day of the year that marked the opening of a passageway between the world of the living and the dead.  This celebration was held at the end of autumn, corresponding to the more familiar Christianized version, All Hallows’ Eve and All Saints’ Day.

After successive invasions by Danes, Saxons, and the Vikings, the Benedictines managed to establish a foothold on the island that lasted over 700 years, during which time, various religious miracles were alleged.  In 1756, the French military built the circular fort, which they named, rather inexplicably, after the Egyptian sun god Ra.  After less than 25 years of occupation, Fort Ra (today Fort Ré) was curiously abandoned.  In the early 1800s, the square Vauban fort was constructed, and in the mid-1800s, renovations to the fort were said to be carried out in the greatest secrecy, mostly at night.  When the Nazis arrived in 1944, they promptly encircled the island and issued official warnings forbidding any attempt to approach it.

In 1955, a 30-ton vessel, the Grey Ganet, was found by fishermen at the headwaters of the near-by Loire river estuary with no sign of her six man crew.  Her home port identification had been painted over and no official papers were ever found.  Strange traces, thought to be made by some sort of machinery, were found on the deck.  These same traces were later found on Dumet Island.  Explanations put forth included alien abduction and offloading of top secret cargo from the island.  The investigation at the time classified the affair as a banal case of illegal trafficking by bandits plagued with transmission problems. 

In the early 1950s, a French aristocrat-turned-occult-scientist, Robert de Fleury Valois and his music-hall star wife moved into the remains of Fort Ré to serve as the guardians of the island’s new lighthouse. They were also looking for a paranormal phenomenon they called “the orange ray” (first Ra, then Ré, and now ray?) which they claimed was a source of energy and longevity important for humanity.  After 34 years of searching, aged 93 and 88, the guardian and his wife left the island.  When asked if he was disappointed about not having found the orange ray, he said he had come to realize that it was a terrible thing that should not be found, explaining that every time man has found a natural source of power, such as the atom, it has been used for evil.  “We’re the devils!” he exclaimed. 

The couple also said they were happy to leave the island because the noise of the birds was driving them crazy.

A few months after my first encounter with Dumet, I was sailing in the area with a new crew.  As Dumet became visible over our bow, I exclaimed “Ah, mysterious Dumet Island!” in keeping with what I took to be the customary salute. 

Jeanne, our new crewmember, asked me why it was mysterious.  Poised to describe my recent findings, I stopped, suddenly overwhelmed by the task.  What do I say?  Druid cults? Portals between the world of the living and the dead?  Secret military experiments? Life-prolonging energy rays? 

I decided to take a conservative approach, sticking to the facts, and simply described Dumet as the pole of the continental hemisphere.

Jeanne’s face lit up.  “I did heard about that a few years ago, but I thought it was a joke. Something about the grand opening of that new laundromat in Damgan?” 

As we drifted past the island, I could hear the mocking laughter of the gulls.            

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But I DO work !

Taking very early retirement to go sailing is not without its downsides, one of which is trying to respond gracefully to the question “so what do you do?”  I’ve tried explaining that we sail, which inevitably disappoints and confounds, creating an uneasy atmosphere as if we were trying to hide something shameful, or throwing out an enigmatic answer in a feeble attempt to change the subject. 

Although circumstances usually prevent me from saying so, the truth is that I have dedicated myself, full-time, to the pursuit of happiness (Iife and liberty having been attained through a combination of pure luck and the sacrifices of countless others, for which I am thankful daily).  But retiring early to chase bliss is not as easy as it sounds. Studies show that retirement increases the risk of depression by 40%, where a lack of purpose is often identified as the root cause.  If you think lack of purpose at 65 is tough, try looking at it through the eyes of a 45 year old. 

Purpose is, in my opinion, highly over-rated.  It may even be dangerous, especially for the recently retired.  I believe much of this purpose-angst has to do with large-scale social manipulation and a poor grasp of philosophy, at least in the west.  The ancient Greeks considered work to be degrading to virtue and something to be avoided if at all possible.  Aristotle called happiness the ultimate aim of all human endeavours, explaining that we desire things in order to be happy; we don’t seek happiness in order to achieve other aims.  He goes on to say that happiness is not a state of being but an activity, where contemplation is its highest virtue.  But in western society, the concept of happiness has become linked to contributing to society, and contemplation in the pursuit of happiness is viewed as a selfish and futile endeavour.

One of my favourite children’s tales is Frederick, by Leo Lionni, which addresses this sticky issue of the value of work and what constitutes a contribution to society. Frederick the field mouse is a dreamer and a poet who has difficulty staying “on task” during the preparations for winter, stocking up on food and supplies with his field mouse family.  When they complain about his laziness, he replies,

“I do work. I gather sun rays for the cold dark winter days.”

“I gather colours, for winter is gray.”

“I gather words, for the winter days are long and many, and we’ll run out of things to say.”

During the long winter, morale plummets as supplies dwindle, and Frederick’s family mockingly ask him to share the supplies that he has stored up for the winter.  Frederick asks them to close their eyes, and begins to paint stories in their minds with the warmth, colours, and words he has gathered in preparation for those dismal days when there is little to say.  As the story ends, he is applauded by his family who recognize the value of having a poet in the family.  

Active contemplation can take many forms.  Our favourite, of course, is travelling, mostly by sailboat.  Aristotle warns that there is no immediately practical result from a contemplative life, so I don’t know why I should feel compelled to identify one for my own.  For now, I’m happy gathering sun rays, colours and words, and travelling as often as I can to encounter new landscapes, cultures, and people.  And it makes me happy to try to take my friends and family along with me through stories and pictures along the way.  I still can’t answer the question “what do you do” very well, but it no longer bothers me.    

All of this is a rather long-winded way of announcing that I’ll be posting some cruising and travelling stories that I’ve stored up over several long gray winters along with updates from the road (as internet connections permit) during our upcoming southward migration. 

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Epiphany: Hibernation or Migration ?

Our epiphany for 2014 was inspired by last winter’s experience of forcing ourselves to sail in the local conditions: we are migratory by nature, not hibernators. 

Two who missed the signal to head south in 2013...

Rather than hunkering down to brave the local elements, our instinct is to move to find those precious resources no longer available at home (warmth ! light !).  This year, while Spray is hibernating on her cradle in the boatyard, we will migrate…by land. 

In a few weeks, we will begin our journey south, first to the Pyrenees for some skiing and frolicking in the therapeutic geothermal springs there, and then on to Morocco for one month of exploring.  Like all wise migrating species, we’ve prepared for this voyage over the last month by packing on some extra body weight for the arduous trek ahead.

Cold is okay as long as there's sun !  (and hot springs...)

One part of our journey in Morocco will involve travelling by the ships-of-the-desert (camels) into the Sahara (warmth ! light !).  Friends who have done this report a feeling of awe at the immensity of the sky and the horizon that stretches out as far as the eye can see; a sensation you can only have in the desert or at sea.  Like most people, we’re drawn to majestic scenery (mountains, oceans, deserts) perhaps, ironically, because those grand spaces and their timelessness make us feel small and help us to put ourselves in perspective as small parts of a larger whole.

So strap on your virtual skis and keffiyehs (desert head scarves) and join us for a little alternative cruising while we wait for more hospitable sailing conditions.

* * *

We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.

-T.S. Eliot

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The Importance of Role Models

When Patrick and I think about setting off for a life of long-distance cruising, that little twinkle of excitement in our eyes rapidly clouds over as a profound lack of confidence sets in.  Neither of us comes from a sailing family and we took up sailing rather late in life.  I started going to sea when I was 18 but not on small sailboats and certainly not in a position of responsibility for the ship or crew.  Over the last 10 years, we have taken sailing courses, passed our coastal and offshore permits, and joined a sailing association that allowed us to log approximately 5000 nautical miles on more than 25 different boats (and more importantly, with more than 25 different skippers).  (For our sailing CV, see "The Crew") We bought our own boat and have skippered her more than 2000 nautical miles in the last 18 months.  But we still seem to be missing some essential ingredient that would allow us to boldly bound over the horizon. 

Recently, I was reading an article about how to get more young women interested in science and engineering careers, and the mantra highlighting the importance of mentoring was “you can’t be what you can’t see.”  I realized that we don’t have many role models in the sailing world that looked like us: a middle-aged couple with no sailing experience trying to cope with a strange new world of sailing and the cruising life. 

This week, a quick spin around the internet turned up new inspiration.

Over the past year, I followed the voyage of the amazing Jeanne Socrates, the 70-year-old British woman who completed a solo, non-stop, unassisted sail around the world this past July. 

Jeanne Socrates on Nereida.

It wasn't until the newspapers covered her story that I learned that Jeanne only started sailing at age 50 with her husband.  When he died, she decided to continue sailing alone and this successful solo circumnavigation was her THIRD attempt after some serious knock-downs.

A lesser-known inspiration is Elizabeth Tyler, who’s blog title says it all:  “Sailing on - Single Handed:  A blog about untying knots, releasing lines, weighing anchor and getting under way again after having lost the captain in my life.”  

Elizabeth Tyler on Aquarella.

I have yet to wade through the entire archive of posts, but what I’ve read so far is a very candid and moving documentary of one woman learning to cope with the physical and psychological challenges of cruising.  Elizabeth is also an amazing artist and a visit to her art blog and site will astound you.  Remind yourself that you are looking at paintings, not photographs. 

Patrick has not let me ignore the fact that both of these “so-called” inspirational blogs are about women who have lost their husbands.  I tried to explain that the take-home lesson is that if single elderly women can do it, surely the two of us can manage, but this clearly isn't the inspiration he seeks.  We’ll keep looking for role models that we can both aspire to, but I feel better already.

It also has not escaped my attention that both women are cruising with confidence in Swedish boats ! (See recent musings on Swedish boats). 

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The second time around: looking for our dreamboat

We’ve had our first visit by a perspective buyer this week, which makes me realize that it’s time to start thinking seriously about our next boat.  Having been through this before not so long ago, I know that this task is a labyrinth riddled with false starts and wrong turns.  It reminds me of Somerset Maugham’s famous quip about writing:  “There are three rules to good writing.  Unfortunately, no one knows what they are.”

But one must be brave and start somewhere and the conventional wisdom says one must start by defining the navigational program, which should help narrow down the boat choices.  Or not. 

The first problem is that our sailing dreams are of the “leasing with an option to buy” sort.  We’d like to sail around the world (trade winds route is good enough for me) but we’re just not courageous enough for that yet.  So the idea is to head down into the Med, gain some experience and confidence with multi-day passages and foreign waters, and if all goes well, buy the dream and head off over the horizon. 

This complicates boat choices, though.  A full-time live-aboard world cruiser is not the same as a fair-weather Mediterranean cruiser.  Should we aim for the low end of the spectrum and work our way up, or go straight for a world cruiser as the better long-term investment?  There are knowledgeable people out there who say that almost any boat rated for offshore cruising is capable of crossing oceans these days, and it is often said (because it’s true) that navigational programs are more limited by the crew than by the boat. 

I’m a firm believer that one shouldn’t make things harder than they have to be, no matter how fun it is, so let me be honest about my dilemma.  I WANT a new 40-foot Hallberg-Rassy or Najad but can’t afford them without selling the house (which I haven’t entirely ruled out.)  

Hallberg Rassy 40

See how clear things can be when you address the root cause?  Now the problem has been reduced to figuring out how to fall in love with a lesser boat. 

If you read our post about boat shopping the first time around, you will no doubt appreciate the maturing process that has taken place since that time.  Earlier, we decided that boat choices should be driven primarily by lust.  Now we know better.  Sort of.   

Because safety is a major concern of ours, I’ve spent the last week calculating capsize ratios for a handful of different boats and reading the available naval architecture blogs, which have now convinced me that the capsize ratios thus calculated are a lot of bunk.  Next, I started going blind staring at the stability index numbers (STIX, SSSN, and AVS) produced by the British Royal Yachting Association for hundreds of boats, and in the end, realized that any boat that meets the Category A criteria is, by definition, safe for offshore sailing.  In saying this, it’s important to know what Category A means:  Unlimited Ocean Cruising, adequate to withstand up to force 10 gale (55 knots, 102 km/hr, 63 MPH) with average waves of 7 meters height and eventual wave heights up to 14 meters.  After having pounded through a long afternoon of 4 meter seas with a force 8 gale last summer, I don’t want to get anywhere close to the maximum for the rating.  This is certainly not to say that all Category A boats are created equal but they all should be safe enough for what we intend to do.

The exercise has been a useful one, however, since I have now convinced myself that I am not going to be able to calculate my way out of a difficult choice.  Putting all our dreams and desires into the magic box and turning the handle has only produced sausage in my mind, not the miracle solution I was looking for.  Compromises must be made. Back to square one. 

What is it about Spray that makes her inappropriate for our future sailing program?  I’ve mentioned these before so I’ll only highlight:  too small to live aboard 6 months of the year comfortably, too physical, too low in the water, too light, too low on tankage.  But after a little reflection, I realized that it’s equally important to list the things we love about her to try not to lose those elements in this process.

• Robust construction with quality materials.
• Seaworthiness.
• Lots of stowage space for her size.
• Respectability.  Every time we pull into port, people come up to us and tell us what a great boat she is.  It’s become like a scene from the movie Groundhog Day.  “What kind of boat do you have?”  “A Dehler 34.”  “Oh, great boat.”  Same thing, every time.  Nice !
• Small.  What the ?!  I know, I know - it’s crazy !  We’re selling her because we want to buy a BIGGER boat.  But I like the fact that we can pull into ports and not have to worry about finding a place to park her. I like that I can step down gently from her decks onto the dock and physically coax her svelte four tonnes into place without bow thrusters.  I like that people don’t see us as a bling-bling couple of retirees in a flashy plastic bimbo palace.

This makes one thing clear.  We need a boat that’s small on the outside and big on the inside.   

But wait …seriously now, maybe it means that we could be happy with a boat well under 40 feet if the layout is good, in which case, maybe we could afford an older, smaller version of the HRs or Najads?  To be continued…

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The pro has a go

After our boat hibernation routine last week, we decided to call in a professional to winterize the motor.  We took advantage of his presence to pester the heck out of him about other good practices for preparing the boat for winter.  Almost everything we did last week was good, but we missed a few tricks.

Yanmar 2GM20.  Not bad for 21 years, eh?

First of all, our young mechanic complemented us on our clean motor and bilge tray.  I liked him immediately.  While Patrick was laughing, I admitted that I regularly attacked the motor with an old toothbrush and WD-40.  I keep the bilge tray spotless not because of any obsessive-compulsive disorder but because it’s very important to know if the motor is dripping from anywhere.

For the motor, all was well.  He changed all the filters, the alternator belt, and the water pump turbine, and filled the motor with anti-freeze for the winter.  He suggested closing the valve between the fuel line and the diesel tank and he put a thick wad of paper towel in the air-intake to cut down on air circulation inside the motor.  He cautioned us that we should write ourselves a BIG VISIBLE REMINDER to remove the wad and open the valve before trying to start the motor the next time.

I had drained the water tank and pumped as much water out of the toilet as possible.  He told us to simply pour some anti-freeze down the toilet, give it a few pumps to get the liquid up into the joint assembly and then leave it.  For the water tank, he said it was best to leave the faucet in the open/on position, open to air, so that any water in the tubes could drain down into the tank and/or move around rather than being blocked by vapour lock.

The big surprise (and embarrassment) came when we asked about the batteries.  We had a mechanic working on our motor last year and we asked if we needed to add distilled de-ionized water to our batteries from time to time.  He looked over the motor battery and said we had water-tight “no-maintenance” batteries that don’t need water. We looked at the two service batteries and couldn’t see any place where one would add water and so we declared that they, too, must be no maintenance. 

Wrong.  While the motor battery was indeed no maintenance, this was not the case with the service batteries.  This mechanic ripped off the sticker label on the top of the two service batteries to reveal water refill holes.  He opened one of them up and gave a whistle, instantly translatable in any language as “this doesn’t look too good”.  The water levels were quite low.  He said there was no harm done, but that they definitely needed a top-up.

We told him we planned to disconnect the batteries and leave them on the boat over the winter.  He informed us that, for a very modest fee (I think it ended up being about $25 total), he would take them off the boat and store them in the workshop and charge them once a month until we reinstalled them next spring.  They do this regularly as part of their winterizing service for customers whose boats are in the Arzal port lot.  This sounded great to us since we were already trying to figure out how often we should come back to the boat to recharge the batteries over the winter.

So now we can truly say that Spray is tucked in for the winter.  We’ve still got to take the sails in for some minor touch-ups but we’ll get on to that later this week and be ready to turn our attention to other endeavours… like shopping for a new boat ! 

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Winter Hibernation

Last week we began preparing Spray for 4 months of winter out of the water.  This will be the first winter since arriving in Brittany that we haven’t sailed, but after overdoing it last winter (see list of winter sailing posts), we decided to give the old girl a rest.  (I will leave you, dear reader, to decide if the old girl is me or Spray...).

The first thing we did was to take one last day-cruise on the river up to La Roche Bernard.  The weather wasn’t too cooperative (another sign that it’s time to put up for the winter) but we did manage to get the genoa out for a bit.

La Belle Italienne makes her debut on Spray with gentle downwind sailing (e.g. drifting) on the river.

We’ve helped friends winterize their boats over the years but this was the first time winterizing our own boat, and like everything else you do for the first time on your own boat, there was a lot of head-scratching about whether we did everything “right” or not.  In the end, it was easier than we thought to take everything apart, and we now have 4 months to worry about whether or not we know how to put all the pieces back together again. 

Here’s what we did:

Filled up the gas tank and added an anti-bacterial product to avoid algal / bacterial growth.

Emptied the water tank.

Charged the batteries.

Blocked and covered the wind vane.

Off-loaded the outboard motor.  Will take to mechanic for winterizing / tune-up.

Oiled the toilet pump assembly.  We just dumped a quarter of a litre of sunflower oil down the toilet and pumped a few strokes every 5 minutes or so to coat the insides.  When the boat was pulled out of the water we emptied the remaining water from the hoses and toilet.

Shut off cooking gas; off-loaded gas containers.

Set out a small chemical dehumidifier (want 2 more of these…).

Removed the life raft and stored inside boat.

We bought our house because we fell in love with the basement ... lots of storage space !

Off-loaded all food items, foul weather gear, boots, life vests, and remaining bits of clothing still on board.

Off-loaded all books, documents, and electronic devices not fixed to the boat.

Off-loaded emergency offshore kit (flares, etc) and grab-bag.

Off-loaded all tools (amazing how they can rust just from being in contact with marine air.)

Off-loaded bedding cushions, turned saloon cushions on end for maximum air circulation.

Off-loaded the life lines, rinsed with fresh water, dried, stored.

Off-loaded the dodger and side panels. Washed, dried, stored.

...and we also love our huge clothes lines in the backyard...

Removed the genoa; will take to sail makers for tidying up (loose stitching on the foot near the clew).

Removed the lazybag and mainsail; will take to sail makers for tidying up (straps holding 2 of the battens were nearly severed.) 

Striptease:  removing the dodgers, lazybag, genoa, mainsail, and all loose tackle.

Lowered the boom onto the deck.

Removed the spectra boom vang.

Removed the main sail traveller tackle.

Covered winches.

A naked Spray.

Had the boat pulled out of the water and placed on a sturdy cradle in the boat yard for a long winter’s nap.

The haul out.

Settled on her cradle for winter.

Rinsed boat with fresh water, rinsed the anchor and chain well; placed anchor in chain locker.

Greased propeller. 

Greased valves (water intake, toilet, sinks…).

Isolated batteries (removed all connections).  We will keep an eye on the charge over the winter.  We can plug into shore power in the boatyard to recharge batteries on occasion if needed.

Opened all cabinets, refrigerator compartment, storage areas and lifted up all the floor boards.

Insides ready for winter.

Emptied all the hoses (sinks, toilets).

Contacted mechanic to winterize the motor.  We know how to do most of this ourselves (rinse the engine with fresh water, change the filters, change the pump turbine, change the oil, change the zincs) but it may be a good idea to have some anti-freeze put in for the winter (we’ve never done that), and since we’re trying to sell the boat, it would be good to have a professional touch to be certain that things are in order.

And last but not least, put out the FOR SALE sign on the balcony.

Sigh...

That last one hurt more than the others combined but we tell ourselves it’s for a good cause  (e.g., buying a bigger boat for longer cruising).  

Addendum: April 2014:   One thing we did NOT do that we SHOULD HAVE DONE was to take better care of the seacocks and through-hulls.  We had a last-minute surprise with a sticky seacock just before launch that we should have taken care of from the beginning.  

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