A Thousand Miles from Anywhere

by Sandra Clayton

  Throughout our travels we have always been touched by the courtesy of the Spanish. What has particularly charmed us – given a tendency among northern European youth to treat the no-longer-young as if they are at least invisible and at worst expendable – is that young Spaniards are not only aware of older people but mindful of them.

  Accordingly, the young man behind the chandlery counter, spotting two middle-aged customers moving slowly down one of his aisles on their hands and knees, comes over to assist and ends up sitting on the floor, opening each of the brown boxes in turn and unfolding a flag, which we either accept or reject depending on whether we plan to visit that Caribbean island or not. He holds up a familiar one and we shake our heads vigorously.

  ‘No?’ he says, surprised.

  ‘No!’ we say, emphatically.

  That particular island has a dual reputation. One comes from its tourist industry, which describes a Caribbean paradise of friendly people and warm welcomes. The other is from the international press reporting tragic holiday encounters and frightening statistics.

  ‘That’s the murder capital of the world,’ we tell him. ‘And we’re getting older. We don’t run as fast as we used to.’

  In the following days we also take a trip around Our Lady of Africa market which sells traditional island products, stock up the wine locker, and post our latest newsletter to family and friends. In between times we also become acquainted with some more of our neighbours.

  6

  The Neighbours

  To our left are Ulrika and Johan, a Swedish couple roughly our age, another Swedish boat, and a Frenchman who has commandeered the only other ladder on our stretch of the marina wall. But no-one begrudges him, for several times a day he carries an enormous woolly dog up and down the ladder over his shoulder.

  The man had found the dog, only a few months old, running with a pack of strays on a Greek quay. The life of a stray is often harsh and brief. And a thick, curly coat in a hot climate soon becomes matted, filthy and a haven for vermin. The man had had little idea at the time just how big the dog would grow, but he carries him cheerfully to and from his exercise and bathroom breaks. Depending on how the light catches him – as he rises majestically up and down the wall – Champy appears as either an untrimmed Standard French Poodle with a touch of something more muscular in his genes, or as a champagne-coloured Old English Sheepdog only leggier. Whatever his lineage, he lies over his man’s shoulder in a state of perfect trust and composure. For like many a rescue dog before him, he knows that he has landed on his feet.

  On the other side of the marina, there is an all-nations of fellow travellers including Norwegians, Danes, a South African, a couple of large American yachts, a very small sloop called Down Under with seven very amiable Australians on board and a Dutch couple called Piet and Else cruising with their young son. After sailing from the Netherlands the latter had followed a similar route to us. In fact, we recognise each other’s boats from Gibraltar and Madeira although this is the first time we have actually met. Piet and Else intend to cruise the Caribbean for a while before going through the Panama Canal and into the Pacific. At present they are trying to decide if they need an extra pair of hands for the Atlantic crossing.

  There are also a surprising number of Swedish yachts. Our next-door neighbour, Johan, looks across at the long line of them tied up to the opposite quay and draws thoughtfully on his pipe.

  ‘Is there anybody left in Sweden?’ David asks him.

  ‘Not many,’ says Johan. ‘Only eight and a half million to start with. Most of us are under sail now.’

  Like us, and so many others from northern Europe, Johan and his fellow Swedes are looking for a bit more warmth and sunshine. Migration appears to be of two distinct types these days. One is younger and economic: moving north in search of a better standard of living. The other is older and climatic: going south for warmer weather and a better quality of life.

  With regard to our own southern migration David does a few calculations. We covered 951 miles in the eighteen days between leaving Gibraltar on 2nd October and arriving here at Tenerife, with the layover at Madeira in between. And in the four and a half months since leaving The Balearics on 16th June we have done 2,400 miles. Since leaving England last August we have completed 4,360.

  When we get up this morning the sky is clear and the day, after all the rain, is preparing to become humid as well as very hot. In anticipation of the latter Ulrika does some laundry, a pair of jeans plus a few items of underwear, and pegs them out in the rigging to dry. The Coastguard, meanwhile, is preparing for some air-sea rescue exercises. A helicopter has landed down the far end of the dock, while tied up not far from us is a huge orange search-and-rescue ship.

  The two crews stroll past the line of yachts tied to the quay. The rescue ship’s crew is clad in bulky, heavy-duty, sea-going foul-weather gear in that lurid shade of orange that is most easily detectable in a violent sea and poor visibility. In contrast, the men from the helicopter are dressed in black, close-fitting, one-piece flying suits with epaulettes, apart from the one sporting a wet suit, ear protectors and a pair of green plastic flippers tucked into his belt. They speak faultless English and apologise for any inconvenience they might cause during three proposed takeoffs and landings.

  The big search-and-rescue ship leaves first. Then the helicopter takes off. A few of us troop out onto our decks, shade our eyes and peer down towards the end of the harbour to watch it go. Sometime later, the characteristic sound of rotor blades can be heard coming back. Only this time a glance upward reveals that instead of returning to its original spot, down the far end of the quay, the helicopter is planning to land on the car park above our boats. It is a dramatic moment and, with so much noise, impossible to ignore. Everybody on the yachts goes out to watch. It is low tide at present, so to raise our sights above quay level we are all balanced on coach house roofs or booms or teetering on pulpits as the helicopter begins its slow, controlled descent.

  I spot a smiling face at one of its windows and raise an arm to wave – but then duck into a crouch instead and run whimpering for cover along with everyone else. It is regrettable that the helicopter crew, with its immaculate English, had not thought to use it to warn us about the effect of the downdraught from their rotor blades. High-velocity dust from the car park blinds our eyes while a hail of grit, gravel, loose tar and cigarette ends peppers our faces and bare limbs like airgun pellets. As I grope my way down to the cockpit, and the shelter of the saloon, I am overtaken by the pair of jeans from Ulrika’s washing line. I grab them and take them inside with me. The underwear that had accompanied them she retrieves later from somebody’s rigging.

  We all remain below for the remainder of the Coastguard’s manoeuvres, with our boats battened down and not a little resentful as the morning gets hotter and stickier. When it is finally safe to open the hatches again I spend ages vacuuming grit and cigarette ends from everywhere, including our bed, while David sweeps our previously spotless decks before it rains again and the whole disgusting mess gets wet and walked indoors.

  On our way into town during the afternoon we bump into Piet and Else, the Dutch couple who have been debating whether or not to take on extra crew. A young man called Jan, who has recently completed the passage here aboard a Scandinavian boat, is looking for a berth across the Atlantic and has approached them. Since we last spoke to him Piet has been making enquiries about the business of taking on crew for the Caribbean and discovered the same daunting facts as we had in Gibraltar when faced for a time with the choice of extra crew or being refused insurance cover.

  ‘You have to buy them a ticket home,’ says Piet, his hand moving involuntarily towards the general area of his wallet.

  We nod sympathetically.

  ‘And if they get drunk,’ adds his wife, ‘and wreck a bar or something, you have to pay the owner compensation.’

  We know, we know.

  ‘And if they haven’t anywhere to go once you get to the Cari
bbean,’ says Piet, ‘you’re stuck with them!’

  We spend the evening over a glass of wine with Ulrika and Johan and some of the other Swedes. Like us, they have been disappointed that there are so few good anchorages around. We should all like to be at anchor again, away from the dust and dirt of the huge car park and the pervasive smell coming from the waterfront. There is one anchorage, apparently, at Los Cristianos on the other side of the island. We all decide to go there.

  7

  Los Cristianos

  The Swedes set off very early, but we need to visit the fuel dock at Puerto Radazul, a few miles along the coast, and it won’t be open until nine. So we opt to head for the anchorage at Bahia de Abona for the night, which is roughly halfway between Santa Cruz and Los Cristianos.

  One thing I particularly notice on the way are some tiny fishing villages, clinging to the bottom of the cliffs, right on the water’s edge, some of them with a small beach. Way above them, up on the clifftop and out of each other’s sight, are huge, expensive developments. It is like a metaphor for so many beautiful places we foreigners invade: the indigenous, timeless and low paid at the bottom and the incoming affluent on the top.

  By 4pm we are entering the anchorage. There is a heavy swell as David noses close into a corner of the bay to get as much protection from it as possible. I am on the foredeck making sure that the jagged rocks I can see on the shoreline do not extend out under the water. Suddenly we are approaching a wide ledge of yellow rock less than a couple of metres below us. With the present swell, I fear Voyager will be lifted up and brought crashing down onto it. I turn towards the wheelhouse and wave at David to reverse out. He smiles and nods back. I begin waving my arms madly in the direction from which we have come and yelling at him to get away from here. Even after all these years together he has never been one to take a hint, but fortunately the depth gauge finally takes an interest and he shoots into reverse.

  A few minutes later we find a suitable patch of water and the anchor sets very nicely. During the early evening the small Australian sloop, Down Under, joins us. When the wind shifts, it turns into a very bumpy night. With the heavy swell still coming from the east, and the wind now from the north, Voyager is buffeted unmercifully between the two so that every time you drop off to sleep you find yourself jolted awake again.

  Unable to rest I get up for a while and go out on deck. Bahia de Abona contains one small and one tiny village, at either end of the bay. I settle down in the cockpit and gaze out at the lights in the windows of their houses and wonder about the lives lived within. Further out in the bay Down Under’s anchor light is bobbing violently. A monohull, and needing deeper water than us, she is bouncing even worse than we are. But turbulence is soon forgotten when you lie back and look upwards into a vast sky full of shooting stars.

  We leave the anchorage early next morning with Down Under not far behind. Unlike them we are a little too casual in setting our course, given the strength of the wind and tide and find ourselves being swept rather dramatically towards the Point de Abona lighthouse and a rather nasty reef. It takes us quite a while to get clear of it, all the time convinced that despite our best efforts we are not actually making any headway. Once out of the bay the sea settles and we begin what turns out to be a very pleasant sail to Los Cristianos.

  Spain’s highest mountain isn’t in Spain. It is here on Tenerife and it is a volcano. We are sailing under it now. Pico de Teide is 3,718 metres high and its peak is white with snow. Below it, on the beach directly opposite us, is what looks like an old-style power station, while to the left of it stand a large number of new, hi-tech wind turbines.

  The coastline itself provides evidence of a very much older power surge, its volcanic rock elaborately fluted and full of distorted holes like partly-melted Gruyere cheese, or something from Salvador Dali. In fact, the landscape is quite surreal along here. This includes multiple peaks above the shoreline that are smooth, dark brown and scattered with low, round shrubs which look as if most of their colour has been bleached away. The effect is of brown spoil tips covered in pale green polka dots.

  At around 11am our depth gauge shows 4.3 metres which is worrying as our chart says it should be closer to a thousand. We ponder on whether a dolphin is practicing close-shave swimming against our hull, just where the echo sounder’s transducer is located.

  By 1.15 at Punta Rasca, the southernmost point of the island, we are in a Force 6 with the tide from behind and the sea becoming very large. Then the wind shoots to the bow, drops to Force 2 and the sea becomes calm, making the genoa flap, so we take it in. There is a very odd effect to the sea here. It is mostly quite flat but with odd areas splashing up quite violently, the way fast-moving water does when it has rocks just below its surface. There are none marked on the chart, however, and it is most likely the result of two currents meeting at the point; something we met with frequently during our early sailing days in Wales and known there as ‘outfalls’.

  Los Cristianos has a large harbour with berths for cruise ships and ferries. Once a departure point for yachts heading for the Caribbean, nine years ago the authorities outlawed anchoring here because of concerns about beach pollution. Nevertheless there will be somewhere between 15 and 25 yachts anchored in the harbour at any one time during the coming days. Since you are illegal, however, the authorities do not require you to clear in. At the same time no-one bothers you for being there illegally. This is Spain.

  The weather is delightfully warm with just a light breeze. From the anchorage it is only a short trip into town by dinghy, where we tie up at the northern end of a long sandy beach in a convenient corner created by the harbour wall.

  Behind the beach is a large tourist town with a lot of shops and a very long promenade. At one end of it African men and women are selling leather goods and wooden carvings out of suitcases or from rugs spread on the ground. At the other, Spanish men, with a little wooden tray hung from the neck by a piece of string, are working the three card trick. In between, small groups of Britons are offering timeshare apartments.

  We stop to watch as a Spaniard invites a newly-arrived holidaymaker to find the lady. He seems rather inept as cardsharps go, and makes it easy to see where the Queen is. After several correct guesses, the visitor decides he is ahead of the game and agrees to do business. The Spaniard shows him the Queen once more, puts her face-down with the other two cards and turns all three slowly to the right. It is obvious where she is. The cards stop moving. The visitor points to the one that both we, and he, and his wife know is the Queen and the Spaniard makes that universal gesture of rubbing fingers against thumb that says it is time for money to change hands.

  But in the instant that the man takes his eye off the cards to reach for his wallet, the Spaniard gives them a further small turn to the right. In consequence, when the man has handed over several hundred pesetas and the Spaniard turns the cards face-up, the Queen is no longer where he knew her to be, and he is utterly bewildered that he could have been so wrong. We return to the beach to find a small child energetically using her bucket and spade to fill our dinghy with sand.

  However, it is a delight to be at anchor again, with an open aspect after the enveloping walls of the marina. We spend quite a few days here. On one of them, a topic of conversation among Johan and the other Swedes is an area called Los Gigantes, just along the coast. Dolphins, it is said, sometimes gather there and people swim with them. We go out for a sail, on the off-chance, swimsuits at the ready, but there are no dolphins about, just lots of replica galleons full of tourists. But it is worth the trip for the scenery. The cliffs are dramatic: high, sheer, dark and thickly wooded. And at the very top of them, hidden from the sea, and indeed from everywhere else, is an ancient secret we will discover a little while from now.

  In the meantime, Navtex gives a coastal warning about a plague of locusts heading towards the Canary Islands from Algeria. Mariners are asked to notify their nearest Coastguard station of any sightings.

  Our seco
nd water tank runs dry. We still have an emergency supply in five-gallon containers but we need to think about refilling our tanks some time soon. From Los Cristianos, looking south, you can see the neighbouring island of La Gomera. We decide to visit another island and fill our tanks at the same time.

  LA GOMERA

  8

  San Sebastian

  We arrive at La Gomera’s capital, San Sebastian, at around 2 in the afternoon and are glad to get into the shelter of the harbour. In a mixture of sun and cloud, most of the four-hour sail has been very enjoyable. The last part of the journey has been most unpleasant.

  There is around these islands a phenomenon called an acceleration zone. It is created by an island’s height and the way this causes the wind to funnel around it. For a yachtsman it means that when you leave the shelter of an island’s mountain the wind hitting your sails can increase in strength from five knots to as much as twenty-five in as little as 200 metres. Accordingly, having sailed down the east coast of Tenerife and across its southern tip in a moderate breeze, on beginning the approach to Gomera we had been hit by a Force 6 funnelling between the two islands and a rough sea.

  Voyager is the only boat on San Sebastian’s quay. A muscular marina attendant with a pony tail, a very deep voice and excellent English all but takes a ruler to the concrete dock. When he is satisfied about exactly where our bows should be – to allow the local water taxi adequate space to berth – he helps us tie up. It is a small marina, with most of its pontoon space taken up by local boats and only the quay, where we are, available for visiting yachts.

  We shove the water hose into one of our empty tanks and are just feeling very relaxed and comfortable when a small, plump Frenchman called Georges, with a drooping moustache and a handheld VHF, arrives on the quay and says he hopes we haven’t planned on going anywhere for a while as he has a rally of twenty or thirty boats arriving. I can’t help feeling as he says this that as the organiser of such an event he ought to know exactly how many boats he has. But I don’t have time to dwell on it as the first of them begin to arrive.