Cutting the Dragon's Tail

by Lynda Chidell

  Don was now familiar with most of the routines followed on Tin Hau, so we opted to make a night passage from Cabrera to Ibiza. We left at half past eight with a very light beam wind. David set a course to take us into the bay at the north-eastern end of the island, passing a kilometre north of Tagomago island. I took my usual night watch (from ten to two), then handed over to David and Don and bunked down in our cabin. Erni was steering the boat and, apart from an unidentified lighthouse, everything was going according to plan. David instructed Don to keep a lookout for stray fishing floats while he took a few of the proverbial forty winks on the pilothouse settee. This brief nap turned into a deep sleep from which his sixth sense aroused him well after the end of his watch. I was called, and came up on deck to a scene of utter confusion. We were surrounded by land and heading for a shore a few hundred metres ahead. Don, blissfully unaware of anything untoward, was still hanging over the bow looking for fishing floats, as per orders. It never occurred to him that we were far too close to land – he assumed that it was all part of David’s plan. In fact we had arrived at our way point far sooner than David had anticipated, having covered the sixty miles between the two lighthouses in record time. Yet our log only recorded fifty-two miles. We must have had quite a strong current in our favour. David was totally disorientated. We should have altered course to the south-west before the island of Tagomago which was now on our port side. There were numerous rocks around us which we had miraculously missed. It was vital that he established our position as quickly as possible. We hauled the log in and gave David time by motoring Tin Hau in a tight circle – more or less holding station. Once he had worked out where we were, we altered course to the south, passed between Tagomago and Mallorca, then south-west down the coast to Cala Llonga, five miles from Ibiza City. This was a brief stop. As soon as we had all rested, we moved down to Ibiza.

  In spite of the specific anxiety so recently experienced, we noticed, generally, that Don was visibly unwinding. He had arrived in Menorca still tensed up from the frustrations of his job. Tin Hau was working her magic on him, and he was relaxing into the laid-back ways of the seasoned sailor.

  We anchored overnight alongside the mole outside the main harbour at Ibiza. We took the dinghy into town in order to explore the citadel. Several hours of pleasant wandering round the market and through little alleyways, trying on hats, buying and eating juicy oranges still warm from lying in the sun made for a memorable morning.

  While sitting on deck, in the early evening, I spotted a large wooden object floating by. Never able to leave that sort of thing in the water, I heaved it onto my dinghy and then aboard Tin Hau. I had salvaged a solid teak door. Once it had dried out, we put it under the mattress in our cabin. Who knew when that sort of find might come in useful?

  We were never overly fond of being in busy ports, and Ibiza was no exception. We longed for a tranquil anchorage. On the afternoon of 5th June, with a good forecast, we set sail for Puerto de Espalmador, a tiny island just north of Formentera. This was much more to our liking. There were comparatively few boats – a mere twelve besides ourselves. On arrival, David attended to a few maintenance jobs. The propeller needed a scrub, Tin Tack needed a new painter, and a fuse replacement was necessary on the radar. The pilot led us to believe that Espalmador was becoming overrun with day-trippers. There was little evidence that we could see. We walked all over the island, which I recall as being rather colourless, flat and a bit windswept.

  Two days later, we motored three miles on to Puerto de Sabina on Formentera. We anchored outside the harbour, along with several other yachts, then used Tin Tack to get into town. We liked the little we saw of Sabina, though we only paid a fleeting visit before moving to Cabrito. The headland west of this bay provided shelter from the west-south-westerly wind. We climbed up to the top from where we had beautiful views of Ibiza, Espalmador and Formentera. All the following day the wind blew from the wrong quarter, but it finally dropped at four o’clock in the afternoon. We enjoyed the day at anchor, watching some interesting boats coming and going. We were especially intrigued by an enormous, modern, multi-masted French boat. When the wind returned, two hours later, it was from the opposite direction, ideal for our fifty-five mile crossing to mainland Spain.

  We allowed six hours to make sure the wind was setting in. That also gave time for the swell to go down a bit. The sea was smooth. At five minutes into the new day, we motored round the headland and set off for Spain. The swell was still a bit high and caused uncomfortable pitching for the first four hours or so. A while later, we lost most of the swell and the wind strengthened to force three. We were making good progress. Several other yachts were heading westward with us. At twenty minutes to eleven we spotted land off the starboard bow. We closed the land rapidly, having logged fifty-three miles. We were going so well that we decided to gybe and make for Alicante, thirty miles to the south. Capital letters in the log note that we crossed the Greenwich meridian at twenty minutes to three. We whizzed by Benidorm, without regret, in the early evening. By then, the wind was dying gradually and we used the last of it to drift into Alicante bay at dusk. We had crossed the Mediterranean from east coast to west.

  3. Dots on the Radar

  Alicante bay proved to be an uncomfortable anchorage because the swell did not die down. There was also an increase in wind strength which didn’t help matters. We laid out a second anchor to make sure we were secure because we did not wish to have to move into Port Alicante till the Monday morning.

  The harbour was full of yachts, but the harbour master found us a place to tie our stern to the quay. We were surprised and delighted to find Hennie and Nico of Klepel in port, aboard Klepel II. We had not seen them since our first stopover in Cyprus. They had been home to Holland and had replaced their boat with a newer model. If my memory serves me correctly, I vaguely recall that this was in preparation for a second circumnavigation.

  The 1990 World Cup soccer matches were in progress during this part of our voyage, so the men were pleased to be invited aboard to watch some of the football on Klepel’s television.

  Alicante was a pleasant town to visit. The quay on which we were berthed, which was also the marine parade, was planted with palm trees along the entire length. Centrally situated in the town, there was plenty of activity to watch, especially in the evenings when the inhabitants came down to the front to see and be seen. We stayed for two days; long enough to replenish our stores but without feeling overwhelmed by all the bustle of shore life.

  Torrevieja was our next destination. The only remarkable thing about the six-hour sail along the coast was the dramatic and distinct colour change of the sea– from a dark azurine blue to a milky emerald green. There was a clear dividing line between the two where the River Sigura flows out to sea. The area close to the divide was covered in flotsam and jetsam. We did not attempt to go into either of the marinas, preferring, instead, to anchor near the salt loading quay. There was plenty of room for this.

  We were interested in seeing the coast to come because Bill and Carole Kerley’s friends had based their boat in Mar Menor, and they were wondering if they should do likewise. We were very disappointed, for them, at what we saw from Tin Hau during the sail past. First we were bothered by a huge plague of mosquitoes settling on board. Then the water around became absolutely filthy. Very tall buildings ashore did nothing at all for the landscape.

  Not far beyond all this, at Cabo de Palos, was one of the loveliest lighthouses we had ever seen. We bypassed Cartagena and Puerto Mazzaron and made for Ensenada de la Fuente, a remote anchorage tucked behind Cabo Cope. Considering that this was still very much part of the Costa Blanca, it was delightfully undeveloped.

  Rounding Cape Gata and reaching the Costa del Sol was not without difficulties, mainly due to fitful winds and confused sea and swell. Most of the anchorages were good for wind shelter, but useless for comfort – rolly beyond imagination. Our first anchorage in the Gulf of Almeria was just outside the breakwater of the harb
our at Roquettas del Mar. The waves were too high to negotiate the harbour entrance. The following day we made our way toward Adra. There was virtually no wind, yet a large swell and confused sea, occasionally breaking; very uncomfortable. We motored into it at higher revs than we had ever used before. Anchoring in Puerto de Adra was something of a relief.

  We had not long left the shelter of the port when we entered a fog bank. We experienced minimal visibility for three hours, then came out into a clear patch for forty-five minutes before plunging once again into even thicker fog. This was why David had insisted on having a radar. He was tracking following and overtaking trawlers as well as keeping an eye on the not-too-distant coast. Don and I were on deck, keeping a lookout ahead and to either side. Visibility was down to three hundred metres. David, worried about an overtaking trawler four hundred metres to port, changed radar range to get a clearer picture. At the instant of doing so, the fishing vessel must have changed course, and within seconds came into our field of vision, heading straight for our midships section. Don saw it first and immediately alerted me. I yelled at him to blow, and keep blowing, on the fog horn. At the same time I ran back to the wheelhouse, put David in the picture and started to haul in the log line. David revved up the engine, the trawler held its course and at the last possible moment, the crew became aware of Don’s long foghorn blast. The expressions of fear and horror on their faces were not at all surprising to us. They passed within inches of our stern. There was no one in their wheelhouse, though revolving scanners indicated that they had two radar units operating. The half dozen hands we saw appeared to be busy picking small fish out of nets. We were amazed they could be so casual in those conditions. All three of us were shaking from our incredibly close call. Don had more than made up for his earlier near-miss. Typically, the fog cleared five minutes after the incident.

  Marina del Este was our destination, but when we got there we found it was really a marina for very small boats and we should have to anchor off the pontoons in a position exposed to the wind. It was altogether too open, so we carried on till we found a spot in Herradura Bay. That was barely suitable either – we were up half the night checking on our anchor. By five o’clock we had had enough and decided to move on to the west.

  The pilot showed a marina in the vicinity, but to the west of Torre del Mar. There was no wind to start with but the sea was moderate to rough. We had two and a half hours of windless conditions, and then had to cope with a force four headwind as well. When we reached the point where the marina should have been, all we could see were a few scattered building blocks on a deserted beach. Disheartened, we turned about again. It looked like we would have to retrace our steps.

  Then we saw a trawler making for the shore to the north-east of us. He had to be going into shelter, probably in Torre del Mar, though we had no information on a harbour there. We decided to risk following him. The trawler got closer and closer to the beach, virtually into the surf. We followed with some trepidation. Just when we were wondering if we had done the right thing, he made a ninety degree turn to starboard, heading for an entrance we still could not see. We executed the same manoeuvre in our turn and finally found ourselves in a crowded little fishing harbour with hardly room to swing a cat. We tied to the ice quay after several attempts, and remained there for half an hour while the officials decided what to do with us. Eventually we were told to anchor in the middle of the harbour. Later we added a stern anchor to prevent swinging. The wind increased, another yacht came in, more trawlers returned. Between four thirty and five thirty the following morning, all the fishing boats pulled out. They had obviously had word of a change. We waited till the wind arrived at ten o’clock. We watched it swing from south-west to east before setting off ourselves. Within an hour and a half it was heading us again. However, with a moderating sea, we were able to motor-sail.

  We were welcomed into Malaga, on 21st June, by a large naval vessel which circled us, then called us on the VHF to tell us how beautiful we were! We hadn’t the heart to ask him to keep his distance as he was blocking our wind. It was so nice to come across a naval officer with a spark of romance and appreciation for the more basic way of getting about on water.

  Don’s time was fast running out. The adverse winds of the week leading up to arrival in Malaga showed no sign of letting up. If they continued, we calculated, he would miss his plane out of Gibraltar. Forecasts were inconclusive, so he regretfully took the decision to leave us and head for Gibraltar by coach. This was sad, but sensible from his point of view.

  While waiting for the windshift we got to know Nigel and Lynne of Avalon, the first boat we had met that was bound for England – more specifically, Cornwall. We had seen their boat earlier, but had not had the opportunity to meet them.

  Don left the boat early on the 23rd. Not long after his departure came the news that a levanter (east-north-east) wind was on its way. By lunchtime we were motoring through a disgusting soup of scum, rubbish and empty bottles off Torremolinos. Shortly after clearing that we picked up a gentle breeze which allowed us to ghost gently past Fuengirola. Dozens of small boats came out from Benalmadena and we could have made a small fortune had we charged for all the pictures taken of Tin Hau that day. The wind strengthened and we reefed accordingly, but continued to sail goosewinged with a school of close to a hundred dolphins for company. At five o’clock we gybed to give room to a trailer-suction dredger working in the area. There were some seventy or so small fishing boats anchored nearby, making use of the waters churned up by the dredging. We had to weave a path through these, to avoid their trailing lines.

  At 8 p.m. we had Gibraltar in sight, and had identified Sidi Musa in Morocco (forty-five miles distant) twenty minutes later. The Gibraltar lighthouse was visible at ten minutes to ten.

  David called me to join him during his dawn watch as he was concerned about unidentified fast-moving objects appearing an the radar screen but which he could not see. We were only a few miles from Europa Point and entering busy shipping lanes. I was equally unable to work out what these dots on the radar were. We could only conclude that they had some military or naval connection.

  At twenty past six, with an adverse three to four knot current running, we rounded Europa Point and left the Mediterranean behind us. The entry in the log shows a ‘Mr Happy’ type drawing of Tin Hau’s skipper – delighted to have sailed his ship into British waters at last.

  4. In the Shadow of the Rock

  Clearing customs was quick and easy, then we moved along to the bunkering quay. By the time we had finished refuelling, a strong breeze had blown up, putting us in the same position we had experienced in Menorca – unable to get off the jetty, with no room to work our way round. Tied alongside, we had a ski-boat with several really powerful outboard engines attached. We asked the owner for help in pulling out our stern. In spite of all his efforts (or should I say in spite of the power of all that machinery?) we were unable to get off. We ended up springing our stern out with less difficulty than we had imagined.

  We were anchored beyond the runway, on the border between Gibraltar and Spain, by eleven o’clock. Soon after dropping the hook, we were joined by our powerboat friend for a mid-morning beer. We were intrigued by this chap, who solved the riddle of the ‘dots on the radar’. His over-powered boat was one such dot – making regular runs between Gibraltar and a beach on the Spanish coast with contraband cigarettes. He was, in effect, a smuggler. Fed up with working as a carpenter in England, he had been persuaded by a friend to invest in a boat and suitable motors to run cargoes between Gibraltar and Spain. There were a number of young men involved in these escapades. Each operated his own boat, bought duty-free stock in Gibraltar, quite legally it seemed, then transported it round to a pre-arranged spot on a Spanish beach in the dead of night. All the cigarette boats ran without lights of any kind (which explains why we couldn’t see them). The Spanish navy sent gunboats out after them, but they evaded these by running straight for fishing nets. As they reached the
nets, they raised their motors, allowing them to cross the mesh safely. The gunboats, with their inboard engines, could not follow without getting their propellers fouled. The set-up was obviously more complex than this, but my description gives the general idea.

  We had quite a bit to attend to in Gibraltar. We were being joined by our son Mark and his girlfriend Lynn, and our friend Mark Sylvester and a colleague of his, Anne, from The United World College in Trieste. They were hoping to sail with us back to England via the Azores. Crew were going to present the same problem we had from Corfu to Sicily – two men answering to the same name. Our Mark, being the younger, became Markie (as in ‘little Mark’) and our friend became Marko (because of the Italian connection).

  The generator left by Alan of St Combs was ready and awaiting our arrival. Bless the Buchans, they had found a really good workshop, given explicit instructions for the repair and need for speed, and left us a receipt and directions for finding the workshop. So efficient.

  A friend of ours from Hampshire had arranged to visit his mother in Gibraltar for a short holiday around the time we were there. This was great for us as it gave us an introduction ashore. Michael had long wanted to see Tin Hau and this was his first opportunity. He was not very pleased with us for sneaking in without warning, however. His mother’s flat commanded a wonderful view of the approaches to Gibraltar’s many harbours, and he had hoped to film our arrival from there. We gave ourselves time to see the sights and socialise a bit, which was good.

  Once more, we found ourselves having difficulties with gas refills. Our cylinders, changed in Cyprus, then again in Greece, were being rejected by the fuelling station as non-standard. They could not (or would not) refill them for us. Neither could they supply us with new ones. We ended up having to cross the border into Spain and hunt through the shops in La Linea for some new cylinders of the right type.