Against all the odds the young Italian woman retrieves their anchor – now encased in mud and shimmering weed – while the helmsman roars round in a circle and charges at the same spot again. Once there he repeats his earlier performance exactly and achieves exactly the same result.
The failure to get the anchor to bite can have only one cause and accordingly he leaves the helm and thunders forward to chastise the person responsible. She has just raised the anchor a second time, bearing even more mud and weed on it than before, and is bent double over the pulpit prising it off with a boat hook. He is too impatient to wait for her to finish doing this and orders it down again immediately. Then he goes bellowing back to his helm brandishing her boat hook above his head like a spear.
After this third attempt fails, the anchor emerges with several hundredweight of mud and weed clinging to it, which the woman is left to pick at ineffectually with her fingers since Ben Hur has carried off her boat hook. More roaring round in circles and bellowing follows.
At the fourth attempt the anchor finally bites, whereupon he storms up to the bow and, taking charge, lets out a further six feet of chain. Exultant, he stands on the foredeck, his feet wide apart and his fists on his hips in a gesture of triumph before returning to his cockpit.
There is a science to anchoring: a 3:1 ratio of anchor chain to water depth in mild conditions and a minimum of 5:1 in turbulent ones. In extremis, Voyager’s capitano has been known to hurl out 10:1 on the principle that it is safer to have out too much than too little. The Italian has dropped less than ten metres of chain in five metres of water. The Swede cups his hands around his mouth and pleads above the wind with the Italian to let out more chain. He is ignored and within minutes the Italian boat is dragging its anchor again.
Now apoplectic, the helmsman roars round in yet another circle and then hurtles off into the bay next door, bellowing. The youth still sits sullenly in the cockpit where he has remained throughout. The young woman crouches at the plunging bow contemplating the huge, green, glistening ball swinging violently from side to side in front of her, which is now the size of one of those things they use to demolish buildings. We, and the Swedes, sink back into our cockpit cushions emotionally drained.
Meanwhile, the French couple on the Hirondelle with the clatter-clatter engine have selected a sandy spot, lowered their anchor, let out plenty of chain, tested it to ensure the anchor has bitten, unpacked two small children and an elderly relative and have the kettle on by the time Ben Hur roars away.
Late evening I become aware of the sound of cicadas. The gale has passed over. The wind is falling away. Within an hour it is zero and the boats, instead of lying stretched out at the end of their chains are floating around their anchors like corks. There are a few desultory lightning flashes in the west, like a malign force retreating, but with luck we shall be able to set off for Sardinia’s capital, Cagliari, tomorrow.
25
Malfatano To Cagliari
Next morning we wash our windscreen with the melted ice water and hurl buckets of seawater over the brown dust and salt encrusting our decks. The anchor is well buried and takes quite a bit of lifting. The plan is to anchor off Nora on the way, have lunch, and then go ashore to have a look around.
Shortly after leaving Malfatano we can see Capo Spartivento ahead of us. Our cruising guide says that a four-mile shoal stretches out from this cape, but our chart doesn’t. David takes it wide to be on the safe side and confuses the hell out of four monohulls who have gone in close to shore. Once past the cape we make a left turn to follow the coastline again although despite our detour we are still just ahead of the four monohulls sailing close to the coast. A lack of wind means we are motoring and David increases our revs by a hundred to keep us ahead of their leader, a sloop with a red hull. What is it about men that always turns a convoy into a race?
‘Why’d you do that?’ I ask him.
‘I’d’no,’ he says.
Sometimes I wish David had chosen someone other than Homer Simpson as a role model.
We start to pull ahead. The red hull keeps pace with us, so its skipper has increased his revs, along with at least one of the others. A light tail wind springs up so David puts out our genoa which increases our lead. The man with the red hull puts out his genoa and increases his lead on the other boats. Genoas begin unfurling everywhere. They all have a similar problem with the tail wind, however. Like most monohulls when motoring, they already had their main sails up to stop them rolling. Now, with the wind directly on their sterns, their mains are shielding their genoas from the wind so that their newly-hoisted sails flap aimlessly. Within half an hour, all four are pointing out to sea, seeking a wind for all the sail they’ve put up and soon dwindle into four small white triangles in the distance.
Around noon, with tantalising bits of Nora’s ancient buildings in sight, Channel 16 announces a gale warning. Despite re-tuning to the working channels indicated, however, we can pick up no further information. The forecast gale might not arrive until tonight, or tomorrow or could even be for an area so far away that the warning is irrelevant. Nevertheless, the wind has been rising steadily for some time and with the weather so unpredictable anyway we decide to leave Nora until another day and head directly for the shelter of Cagliari’s large harbour instead.
Sardinia’s capital lies on its south-east corner, at the top of a huge bay. It has two expensive marinas and a free public quay. We have no expectation whatsoever of finding a space vacant on the quay in mid-July. Amazingly, there are several.
As we approach we are spotted by Lyn and Toby to whom we had chatted briefly in Carloforte marina over Toby’s laundry. They sprint down the length of the quay towards us, drop their supermarket bags onto the hot concrete dock and reach out for our shore lines. I am very grateful. The top of the quay is above my head, and the only means of tying up to it is by threading our mooring ropes through the links of the enormously thick chain that runs across the top of it. The chain is too heavy to lift at arm’s length, so I can’t get a line under it. At the same time the links are too small to push your rope through one of them easily. With a strong offshore wind blowing, the result is that no sooner am I about to push the end of one of our lines through a rusty chain link than the wind blows the boat, me and my rope away from the quay again.
The best kind of yachtsmen embody the pass-it-on philosophy, that unconditional help one stranger extends to another for no other reason than that it is needed. There is no expectation of the good deed ever being repaid, as you will most likely never see each other again. It is an expression of do-as-you-would-be-done-by and when your turn comes you will become that Good Samaritan who leaves a warm, dry saloon in wind and rain or drops groceries onto a hot concrete quay to help someone get safely berthed.
Lyn and Toby express this spirit in spades. Not only do they abandon their food to the blistering heat to tie us up, they also scattergun essential information while they do it.
‘There are no facilities,’ pants Lyn, struggling to get our bow rope under the chain. ‘But nobody bothers you, it’s safe and it’s free.’ We shall be grateful for this, as gale-force winds will extend our stay.
‘The traffic’s horrendous,’ warns Toby, tying up our stern. ‘So do look out. But apparently if a car hits you on a pedestrian crossing, you get compensation.’ His hands fully occupied, he inclines his head towards the west. ‘The Tourist Information office is over there. The woman inside is very helpful and speaks very good English.’
26
Cagliari
Our priority next morning is to find somewhere to get our two propane bottles refilled. As Toby had said, Cagliari’s traffic is horrendous, and unfortunately reaching anywhere from the quay requires crossing Via Roma, a nine-lane highway. At least, I think it is nine. When your thoughts are concentrated on your mortality it is always hard to be entirely accurate, but as far as I can work out – standing with our backs to the quay and looking out across it – there are two lanes going r
ight, two going left, two right and three left. Two in the middle are for trolley buses and turn out to be especially disorientating. We stand on the kerb for a while and contemplate it all. There is no pedestrian crossing in sight.
Some years ago, on a visit to Rome, an habitué of that city instructed me on how to cross its infamous multi-lane highway. The key, he said, is to keep your nerve. Italian drivers will neither slow down nor stop, but once off the kerb neither must you. Maintain a steady and therefore predictable pace and the cars will go around you. Falter and you are done for.
My mother never visited Rome, which is fortunate because she was terrible at crossing roads. In that respect she had a lot in common with cats, which also hover uncertainly and then make a dash for the other side at the least appropriate moment. When that moment came, you needed to be in control of the situation because in her anxiety my mother would grip your elbow and, if you weren’t alert, plunge off the kerb unwittingly thrusting you before her. The more anxious she got, the tighter her grip on your elbow.
Family and friends were so used to this habit that we were always prepared. But early in our marriage David took my mother into town for the first, and what turned out to be the only, time. He returned ashen. As Ma headed blithely for the kitchen to put the kettle on he drew me aside.
‘Your mother just tried to kill me,’ he said. ‘She grabbed me by the arm, and pushed me out in front of a bus.’
Over the years I have pondered this and other characteristics in relation to the nature versus nurture debate but have come to no conclusion. Whether through the genes or as a result of learned behaviour I know not, but at moments of stress I revert to type. Gripping David firmly by the elbow now, I thrust him off the kerb and march him across nine lanes of traffic, including the two in the middle for trolley buses which, being unable to go around pedestrians, nearly prove fatal. On the far pavement he prises himself free of my deadening grip.
‘God!’ he says, massaging life back into his elbow. ‘You get more like your mother every day.’
The woman in the tourist office does indeed speak excellent English and is extremely helpful. She looks up Gas Bottlers in the local Yellow Pages and rings them for us but the plant only refills Italian bottles. With luck, she says, we should find somewhere to refill ours in Sicily.
We thank her for her efforts and accept a map of the town plus a booklet describing its historical treasures, available for viewing at minimal cost and with a brief history provided in English. The morning is already well advanced, however, so we decide to leave that for tomorrow, and head for the supermercato instead.
It is cramped and hot but the people it employs are quite extraordinary. In a narrow aisle, just me and a meat cabinet, I can’t find the boned chicken I’m looking for. A manager materialises, from where I don’t know, nor how he could have spotted me. Our communication consists of the Italian word for chicken, pollo, my mime and his determination to provide what a customer wants, which he does.
Then there is the young woman on the checkout. She exhibits a trait we will notice throughout the town: the courtesy of ensuring that foreigners understand how much they have been charged followed by a quick review of their handful of change and the wrapped sweet.
27
A Walk Through History
Unless you’re born to very high temperatures it is more pleasurable to get the bulk of any walking and climbing done early, and be on the home run by noon to a lazy lunch and siesta. Accordingly we leave Voyager before seven next morning and climb up to the old quarter known as The Castello. This is the ancient citadel, built on the high ground overlooking the port and the lagoons and it was once the seat of power. The sun is not up yet and the narrow cobbled streets are deserted and deliciously cool.
We pass the cathedral and the Torre di San Pancrazio, all still closed, and enter the grounds of the Arsenale for coffee. Once the site of the royal arsenal its buildings now house the city’s principal museums. They too are still closed, but its al fresco café opens early and is popular with men in overalls and industrial boots enjoying an espresso on their way to work. They are good-humoured and helpful and pass the time of day with us as we sip our coffee.
From here we duck under, or walk around, the wizened little pine trees that dominate the pavements, then it’s straight down the hill past the Anfiteatro Romano and the university, and into the Orto Botanico at the bottom. These botanical gardens are to be the furthest extent of our day’s tour, and also its beginning. We arrive there just as it opens.
Its surprised but pleased attendant directs us to the café on the other side of the road to buy our entrance tickets. No bland pastel bits of paper these. Italy’s biglietto d’ ingresso are invariably little artistic gems, usually featuring some aspect of the site being visited. After clipping ours, and inviting us to sign his visitors’ book, the attendant shoulders a fork and spade and dematerialises into the greenery. Some parts of the gardens are closed off to visitors for millennium renovations but there is still more than enough left to captivate.
The gardens are cool, fragrant and shady in a morning already preparing to steam. I barely resist the urge to throw my arms around a long-stemmed water lily, at shoulder height on the edge of a raised pool, its enormous blossom luminous in a beam of sunlight. Everything here is enormous. We wander under soaring exotic trees, towering palms, house-sized yuccas and cacti that would dwarf the average bungalow; all the varieties familiar in small pots at home only this is their natural climate and here they can reach their full potential.
It is like shrinking to a fraction of one’s normal size and tumbling down a rabbit-hole into Wonderland. The effect is heightened by the time of day and being the only people here. What little sun gets through is low and slants secretively through lush green foliage. Outside the high walls a hot, dusty city is just coming to busy life. Inside them it is sensuous, magical.
To reach the Roman amphitheatre, the second stop on our itinerary, we have to climb back up the steep hill past the university. Its buildings are on both sides of the street, and you can guess at the disciplines without reading the signs. The political science department is flush with the pavement, its featureless wall spattered with black and white posters and its hovering students in dark clothes, bearded, solitary and tense. At the arts and social sciences faculties, across the road, flowers bloom behind a neat picket fence, piano music wafts from an open window and students in bright colours converse animatedly in groups.
Cagliari’s 2nd century AD Roman amphitheatre originally seated 20,000 people. It is visible from the street, and the animal pits and the corridors through which they were led onto the stage still exist. Dubiously eyeing the crane and scaffolding lying about the stage, we enter the iron gates. The attendant confirms our suspicions. The site is closed for millennium renovations. I read his name on his identity badge: Sandro, the male equivalent of mine.
He is deeply apologetic at being unable to allow us to enter the site, and so reluctant to turn away visitors disappointed that, apologising profoundly for his considerable English, he invites us onto a platform overlooking the theatre and gives us a scholarly overview of its architecture and history. The Romans had put on scenes of sea battles here on real water. The seating had been cut from living rock. The site had once been vast, but most of it now lies buried under later developments and much of its stone was carried off to build churches in the Middle Ages. Even so, its acoustics are still so good that summer concerts are held here.
We find that one museum or gallery per outing gives more pleasure than trying to take in too much; so back at the city’s arsenal we choose the archaeological museum. It is small but beautifully laid out with a very helpful historical perspective. And after the pleasure of Tharros and the promise of Nora, it is an unmissable bonus to be able to go and see major Phoenician, Carthaginian and Roman finds representing aspects of everyday domestic life such as jewellery, coins, statues and one of my great pleasures, ceramic pots.
Mo
st extraordinary of all, however, are the bronze statuettes from Sardinia’s Nuraghic culture, which are also the main source of information about the mysterious people who built those 3,500-year-old stone structures which still litter the landscape. Made as votive offerings, the little figures were buried in the ground which kept them out of the hands of raiders. Stylised and spindly, but evocative and surprisingly humorous, they show a wide range of life from nursing mother to warriors, hunters, shepherds and domestic and wild animals.
When we have completed our tour we are asked to fill in a questionnaire. The museum is eager to improve its accessibility and information. Everywhere you go in Cagliari, it seems, there is a desire to accommodate you.
It is there in abundance at Torre di St Pancrazio, St Pancras’s Tower, part of the defences the Pisans built after taking the city from the Genoans in 1305. We can’t work out how you get into it, so I tap on the nearest door and ask. A cheerful man drops what he is doing and escorts us up six flights of an almost vertical wooden staircase. There isn’t even an entrance fee. The view from the top, over the old town and the port, is superb. Going up is not bad at all, thanks to our altitude training at Mahon, but the staircase is open-fronted and as you descend its treacherously narrow treads there is nothing in front of you but sky.
We visit the cathedral and have a cold drink in Piazza Constitutione before buying fresh bread and little almond cakes in a side street. Then it is downhill all the way, back to the boat with them, to have with a lunch of tuna, smoked cheese and olives.
By mid-afternoon the temperature reaches 100°F (38°C) and the decks are so hot you can’t put a bare foot on them. Combined with a fierce hot wind, the effect is like living under a hair dryer on maximum heat. Despite a forecast for a moderate-to-strong breeze from the south-west, the wind reaches Gale Force 8 from the north-west and the sea is so choppy that there are breaking waves inside the harbour.
Turtles in Our Wake Page 11