Having read all the warnings about the necessity of keeping the environment here pure, I am shocked to see long ribbons of brown sludge and foam off the island’s southern shore. Only it is not floating on the tide as flotsam or jetsam usually does. It is spinning rapidly on the spot.
Instead of recognising it as the result of conflicting currents around a very small island, I perceive it as the effect of one of those reefs I’ve been reading about, very near the surface, and panic, getting David to change course and losing us temporarily. In an area full of dangerous reefs that is ‘inadequately surveyed’ this is potentially disastrous. But, after a few moments of chaos, we calm down and simply do as we always do. That is to say, David slows the boat right down and studies his chart and instruments, I go and lean over the bow rail and shout my observations of the seabed back to him, he ignores me totally and re-establishes his original course, and we enter the anchorage safely. Dozens of shearwaters escort us in.
The anchorage is very small. Even if we drop our hook in its centre, to allow for any wind shifts, our stern will still be very close to the rocky shoreline. There is also a very heavy swell.
To get ashore you have to first identify the wardens’ house and then locate the concrete ramp below it at the water’s edge. We had managed to spot the wardens’ house from out at sea, although with some difficulty as it is a low building in the same shades of pale brown as the island. But we never do see the ramp that we are supposed to land the dinghy on because of the amount of surf roaring onto the shoreline. This is a calm day, so heaven knows what it is like here in even moderately bad weather. A warden appears and observes us through his binoculars.
It is now 3.15pm. Our plan had been to anchor here for the night and go ashore in the morning. Along with all its other warnings about inadequate surveys and treacherous reefs, however, the cruising guide also says that on no account should the island be approached in the dark. Given the present turbulence in the anchorage, our anxiety is that if it should become untenable during the night, we might be put in a position where we need to leave it in the dark.
We are tired from a night at sea and the day’s mishaps, and looking around the anchorage we will need to keep another night watch. Observing the surf crashing over the spot where we suspect the dinghy ramp might be, and wondering how on earth we are going to land our aluminium one, it all looks like a disaster waiting to happen. One of the wardens calls us on the VHF to ask our intentions. David tells him, with great reluctance, that we shall not be staying.
‘ ’Til next time, then,’ says the warden.
And so we turn our boat and sail away, escorted out by shearwaters and a solitary gannet.
I had found the combination of tiredness, the approach to the island and the anchorage’s roaring surf unusually stressful. An individual’s response to stress is often unexpected, but mine now is irrational by any standard.
‘They must be so disappointed,’ I wail, as the tiny, low-lying island diminishes behind us.
‘Who?’ says David.
‘The wardens!’ I snap, as if anyone with an iota of sensitivity would know that without my having to explain it. ‘They must have been able to see us coming for the last five hours.’ I sag miserably into my corner of the cockpit with my eyes fixed on the small dot disappearing into an otherwise empty sea. ‘They probably had the kettle on ready.’
Doubtless these are men who enjoy isolation and their own company. I can’t imagine why I should think they would need ours. But in my current state of tiredness and anxiety I feel we have let them down dreadfully and am depressed for the rest of the evening.
We see nothing throughout a long, calm, moonlit night beyond a tanker that quickly passes and a lot of shooting stars. Venus, when she puts in her morning appearance, is stunning.
THE CANARY ISLANDS
TENERIFE
5
Santa Cruz
There is an unpleasant smell in the galley reminiscent of drains and the stench of diesel in the cockpit. Neither has any apparent source. We shall be really glad to stop, find the cause and enjoy some fresh air. Our priority, however, will be to locate a new bearing and get it pressed into the existing water pump housing so that we can use the starboard engine again and with it our freezer.
From what David has read, marina places are at a premium in the Canary Islands but Tenerife’s capital, Santa Cruz, appears to be the most likely place to find one. It also offers a good chance of finding a replacement bearing or, as a last resort, the ability to order a new housing complete with a new bearing.
There are seven major islands making up the archipelago known as the Canary Islands, a name which probably derives from the large dogs, or canes, found living on the one which subsequently became known as Gran Canaria. Canary was also the name bestowed on the small brown and yellow native bird with the sweet song when it was first imported into Europe. The islands are Spanish territory and Tenerife is the largest. As we approach Santa Cruz harbour we become aware of a smell that makes the ones we have on board pale into insignificance.
When we get inside the marina, the ‘friendly, helpful staff’ described in the cruising guide appear to have taken the day off. In their place is an offhand adolescent with a ring through his nose whose attention is permanently focused on some indefinable point above our heads and whose only two words of English turn out to be, ‘No problem’.
We prepare to berth bows-on to the quay and as we approach we can see that the youth is holding one end of a lazy line aloft on an extended palm in a somewhat theatrical pose. The harbour has a high concrete dock and it is currently low tide so, with a two-metre tidal range, the quay on which he is standing towers above us. It is worrying to see a lazy line pulled up as high as this. It may work for a monohull, with a single propeller in the centre of its stern. But on a twin-engine catamaran like Voyager, the propellers are close to the sides of the boat.
Standard practice in marinas is to tie up the bow first and only then pull up the lazy line, so as to avoid wrapping it around the propeller. Pulling it up at such an acute angle is putting our port prop at serious risk. This propeller also happens to be connected to our only functioning engine and our only means of propulsion. I explain our anxieties to the youth on the quay above us.
‘No problem,’ he says.
Using the simplest of sign language, I try to persuade him to lower the lazy line.
‘No problem,’ he says, continuing to hold it aloft.
We decide our best option is for David to turn off the port engine as we approach and simply drift in. I will throw a bow rope up to the youth and fend our bows off the wall with the boat hook while he ties the rope around a cleat on the quay. Then, while I keep our bows off the wall, David will leave the helm, take up the lazy line and tie it to our stern.
A bonus of visiting the Salvage Islands had been the prospect of a full night’s sleep. Instead, we have done two night passages and two tiring days since leaving Madeira and I am weary. To make matters worse, Santa Cruz is hot and humid. I too am hot and humid. And itchy. And somewhat irritable.
The higher the quay, the longer your rope has to be to reach the cleat on the top of it. And the longer the rope, the heavier it is. Our present bow rope is pretty heavy. It is also a long way upwards to have to throw it. But I do, and it flies directly up in front of the youth. All he has to do is reach out his free hand and take it. I turn away and pick up the boat hook to fend us off the wall. The bow rope falls at my feet. I assume he has missed it, gather it up and throw it again. And again. Until perspiring and furious I realise he has no intention of catching it. He is ignoring me and my rope, and simply standing there, head on one side, gazing impassively at the horizon while holding out the lazy line on his outstretched hand like some over-the-top thespian declaiming the Bard’s immortal words.
‘Take the rope!’ I yell at him.
He shakes his head, just a single half-turn, and waves the lazy line at me.
Every country has
its stock types and eccentrics. A French one is the Adult Boy Scout: never without a penknife and a piece of string; addicted to being practical but, above all, hyperactive. In his yachting incarnation, while in port he is more often to be found on someone else’s boat, being practical, rather than on his own.
Unfortunately for us a member of this manic breed just happens to be visiting the French boat on our starboard side. He invites his host to join him in clambering over our rails and with neither of them speaking a word of English, or Spanish either, proceeds to take over the berthing of our boat. It is like watching Monsieur Hulot Takes a Holiday as a tall, thin Frenchman accompanied by a short, fat one sprint back and forth across our decks, tripping over cleats, colliding with each other, waving their arms about and shouting instructions which neither we, nor the Spanish malcontent up on the quay, understand.
Meanwhile, with our one remaining engine switched off and the Spanish youth rejecting my bow rope, Voyager has begun drifting backwards, away from the harbour wall. If our French neighbours had simply stayed on their boat and rested a hand on our starboard rail when we had arrived, all would have been well. Voyager would have remained stationary, I could have climbed up the portable steel ladder hanging off the quay and tied us up, and David would have had all the time in the world to take up the lazy line and tie it onto our stern cleat.
Instead, we have a Spanish adolescent above our heads with his eyes fixed on a distant planet, two crazed Frenchmen on our foredeck, and Voyager drifting so far back out into the harbour that David has no option but to restart the port engine and steer us back towards the wall again. Inevitably, the event we had both worked so hard to avoid occurs and the lazy line goes around our port prop. So now we have two unusable engines.
The adolescent on the quay makes a downward cutting motion with the hand that has just let go the lazy line and walks off. The two Frenchmen address us witheringly from behind a flurry of dismissive hand gestures which despite the language barrier leave us in no doubt that as far as they are concerned we could have handled things very much better. Then, apparently satisfied that they have done their best for us under the circumstances they climb back over our side rails and return to their bottle of wine.
Unravelling the lazy line from our port propeller will require some time spent under the boat. Neither of us considers going into this water without proper diving apparatus (which we do not possess) as the pungent smell that was so noticeable on approaching the harbour now reveals itself on closer acquaintance as unmistakably raw sewage.
David vaults up onto the portable steel ladder that hovers above our pulpit, climbs up onto the quay and ties on our bow ropes. These will stop us drifting out. The lazy line currently wrapped around our port prop will hold us off the wall for the time being. Then he goes off to find the office, clear in, pay our marina fees and book a diver.
Meanwhile, I turn off the instruments, put all the equipment away, tidy up the galley and start work on a meal. On his return from a very long wait in a very hot marina office David gives me a shout and I go out and throw our electricity cable up to him so that he can plug us into the mains. It takes quite a while because most of the sockets don’t work. Then he has to walk back down the quay the way he came and clamber over four other boats to get back on board ours. This is because while I have been busy in the galley the French Boy Scout has moved the steel ladder from in front of our boat to further down the quay, where it will be more convenient for the two French boats on the other side of him.
At least we have electricity and after dinner, too tired to do anything else, we unpack the television and shove in the only video within reach that we haven’t watched recently. The script is by a celebrated and very prolific English writer and as it unfolds I wonder sourly whether, had he been prescribed counselling or anti-depressants at an early age, all our lives might have ended up that much brighter.
Two Swedish boats and another French one join us to port, however, so we are spared the movie’s melancholy finale when a marina attendant unplugs our electricity supply in his search for working sockets for the newly-arrived boats. We go to bed. At least we can have a good, long lie-in tomorrow morning.
We are woken at 6am by two marina attendants in a dinghy talking at the tops of their voices a couple of feet from our bed. With reluctance we get up and greet the new day. This is not the best berth we have ever rented. Just beyond us, the inter-island ferries load and unload, while above us there is an enormous parking area for cars and commercial vehicles waiting to board the ferries. Their combined diesel fumes waft over us and merge with the odour of sewage rising from the water around us.
The marina office provides us with an address where we might get our broken bearing replaced. It is at the furthest end of a very long tramp through narrow, airless back streets lined with tall, featureless buildings to the eastern end of the town. It turns out to be a chandlery which naturally enough does not do machining, but they know a man who does – in the opposite direction, at the westerly end of town at the top of a very long hill. We get to see a lot of Santa Cruz in the process. But the man is very kind and without our even asking offers to do the work while we wait, so that we won’t have to walk all the way up here again tomorrow. He also charges us a very modest amount for a new bearing and for pressing it into the old housing.
It is interesting how little it takes to affect the way you feel about a place. Our chaotic arrival at the marina yesterday, this morning’s rude awakening from much-needed sleep and the long dreary climb up here, gives way to a generous man with a warm smile and a downhill return to Voyager through streets that are wide, airy and often pedestrian. This is actually a very pleasant capital, with beautiful open spaces, attractive buildings, lots of trees and big wooden tubs of old-gold mini-chrysanthemums everywhere. Down at the quay, even the bad smell has gone.
On our return to the boat, David fits the housing holding the new bearing back onto the starboard engine which means we can get the freezer working again. A diver arrives and frees the port prop. We cook a particularly pleasant evening meal, watch one of our favourite videos and feel altogether better about life generally and Santa Cruz in particular.
You also feel better when something that had appeared to be rather a waste turns out to have been in your best interests after all. In particular, we had loved Madeira and should undoubtedly have stayed longer had it not been for the short sell-by date on our permit to visit Selvagem Grande. Now, it seems, Madeira is experiencing very bad weather and, given the anchorage’s poor holding and lack of shelter, our departure had undoubtedly been for the best. It was, if the weather we now experience is anything to go by. Gale-force winds and torrential rain batter Santa Cruz for days and we are grateful to be tied securely behind the high protective sea wall of this moderately-priced marina.
It is part of a huge rectangle, a former commercial dock whose high walls were not only designed to accommodate large ships and a two-metre tide but also provide protection from Atlantic gales. Unfortunately there are not enough ladders by which to scale them. To get ashore we can either clamber over three French boats to starboard, or two Swedish and one French to port. A trip to the supermarket means over-handing down a steel ladder with fully-laden shopping bags dangling from each wrist and then negotiating the decks of three monohulls before reaching Voyager.
After the spaciousness of a catamaran, a monohull’s deck always seems to be full before you even set foot on it. Everything is closer together for a start and, unbalanced as you are by the weight you are carrying, you constantly crunch your ankles against cleats, trip over vents or walk face-first into shrouds. After our first attempt we abandon the ladders, let down our dinghy and go ashore by motoring round to the marina’s ramp.
The gale is ferocious and looks set to last indefinitely. It ends after only a few days as suddenly as it began, leaving behind it a rainbow so large, so low and so vivid that it turns the hills behind us into shimmering layers of violet and green.
/> It is now the last week of October. The Atlantic hurricane season is approximately between June and early November. Mostly these hurricanes begin on the eastern side of the Atlantic, just south of the area we are now in, and travel west towards the Caribbean where we are intending to go. Thus the optimum time for us to set out into the Atlantic is anywhere from mid-November onwards, depending on prevailing conditions, naturally, and not forgetting El Niño.
This is the name given to a weather pattern which occurs across the tropical Pacific Ocean every few years causing a warming of the ocean’s surface and a change in air pressure. Its impact is not confined to the Pacific, however. It alters temperatures and wind patterns on a global scale resulting in severe weather extremes including floods and droughts. This is an El Niño winter and in our small corner its effects are manifesting themselves in heavy cloud, hot sticky days, heavy rain and strong winds. El niño is Spanish for the boy, and refers to the Christ child because this particular weather pattern was first identified one Christmas.
So, until we can safely depart, we need something to do to fill in the time. It is too soon to begin provisioning for the crossing, but with electricity and water available Voyager gets a thorough cleaning, inside and out, and a backlog of laundry is taken care of. We sanitise our bilges, get our gas bottles refilled and David services the engines. We also revisit the chandlery up in the town – via the pretty route this time – to buy new rope for our topping lift, along with charts and courtesy flags for the countries we intend to visit.
We find the correct thickness of rope for our topping lift and get it cut to the required length without difficulty. And we have no trouble at all in finding all the charts we need. But the courtesy flags are in dozens of small, brown, obscurely-labelled boxes on a long shelf at floor level.
A Thousand Miles from Anywhere Page 4