Sunday 30 September 2012

Should I Stay or Should I Go

The town is called Asilah, but we're anchored in the middle of the marina, so there's not much chance of getting onto dry land.

The main sail is dead - hopelessly beyond repair. But there's still a solution, apparently. There has to be a solution, because Asilah is an even worse place to be stuck than Tangier. Jean-Pierre & Thomas have pulled out the storm jib - a small sail designed to be used in place of the genoa in extreme winds - and are trying to fashion some way to connect it to the sliders on the mast so that it can replace the main sail.

In the early afternoon, I emerge on deck and am told that Roland, the big Austrian is leaving us. I'm told he only had flights booked from Gran Canaria back to Spain, then back to Austria, and if he continues with us he'll miss both flights. Although Roland speaks as much English as I speak German, over the past week we've both exchanged several knowing glances and wry smiles, as parts of the boat have fallen off and we've each sensed the obvious, immediate and progressively swelling danger.I choose to believe that the scheduling issue is the only reason he's leaving. As he's rowing away in a comically unfit for purpose children's inflatable dinghy, just barely able to contain he and his luggage, I'm on the cusp of throwing in the towel myself.

If I were to leave, I'd really feel like I'm letting my new friends down. On the other hand, I'm recalling the vivid and realistic scenarios where I, or any one of us, looses a finger, or just as likely, is entirely lost at sea. Drowning at sea is a pretty miserable worst-case to be working with. But, back on the first hand, if I leave, that leaves the remainder at even greater risk. We're already in a bad way, having a lost one of the three guys who really knows what he's doing.

My decision falls just narrowly on the side of persisting. Besides, I've already kicked in my food contribution. I might abandon my friends, but I could never abandon all those biscuits, eggs and sausages.

By late afternoon, we've discovered that both heads - toilets - are blocked, badly. It's not pretty. It's really, really bad. It's abhorrent.  Jean-Pierre and I attempt to sanitise and dismantle one of them, hoping to fix it. The hour so I spend plumbing is... unbecoming. Neither head is repairable. A bucket is designated to replace them. I should have gone with Roland.

Jean-Pierre and Thomas have managed to adapt the storm job to serve as a main sail. The storm jib is a fifth of the size of the main sail, and is an isosceles shape that points away from the mast, rather than a right angle that runs along both the mast and boom. It looks truly ridiculous. It's looks like we're sailing with a napkin.

And we're off, again.

Saturday 29 September 2012

So Many Tears

A full day of plain sailing. There's a faint shadow of the Moroccan coast off to Port. Defying it's appearance, the main sail is up and serving well. The sun is out and on full beam, and there's scarcely any traffic. It's all extremely pleasant. The only one problem is that the port quarter winch has ceased to function. It won't hold any weight. It's no more than a bollard now. But, who cares, because the steady land breeze has us set on a nice port tack, with our jib sheet through starboard quarter winch.

It's two in the morning and I'm on shift with Thomas at the helm. Aside from keeping the boat in a straight line, there's sod all to during a four hour shift in the dark. As I did on Pelagic, I've gotten through my share of cereal bars and biscuits - almost exclusively eating for entertainment, rather than hunger.

I take a look up to see how the wind is filling the sail - maybe we could entertain a couple of minutes making an little adjustment and go negligibly faster. There's a small hole half way up the leech - the hypotenuse edge. I'm sure that wasn't there a minute ago. I point it out to Thomas, who takes a peak. Maybe we can ride it out, and just keep an eye on it. I think there might be a couple of other little holes up there.

Five minutes later, the hole is noticeably bigger. Shit. As we bring Valentina into the steady fifteen-or-so knot wind to bring the sail down, the sail begins it's natural motion, violently rolling and shaking left and right. By the time it's down the hole-come-tear is a gash that runs the best part of the length to the mast.

We're fucked, again.

A couple of hours later, we've arrive at the nearest marina. Noone looks surprised as they each surface on deck. We kick the anchor down into the poky little marina of what looks to be a poky little town. There are a handful of small fishing boats, but this place wasn't built for the likes of us.

Friday 28 September 2012

Heavy Fuel

At midday, the sail returns, and to my great surprise, it appears to have been repaired. As it's refitted and half hoisted, I can see where strips of material from a spare sail have been stitched over several tears, one of which is particularly long. It looked like a dirty great rag before. Now, well... Now it has some strips of material from a spare sail stitched over several tears. I want to be confident and happy that we're going to get back out there, but my better judgement won't allow me to believe it. That being the case, I set about mustering facial expressions and intermittent comments to simulate the desirable and appropriate confidence. I'm not sure how good I am at faking it, but it feels passable.

In the late afternoon, Jean-Pierre emerges from his engine cave with some news. He says the main three-hundred litre fuel tank is severely rusted and all the diesel in it is contaminated. Whilst I might have had thoughts to insure and scupper, Thomas is all about solutions.

We have one thirty-five litre jerry can and another twenty litre container. We estimate we need six more to carry enough diesel to negate the lost main tank. At 2000h, Thomas, Manuel and I set out into town looking for more containers. A local is only too pleased to help and attaches himself to us, whether we want his help or not. After he's guided us to several of the various shop-slash-stalls selling plastic bric-à-brac and assorted crap, we've sourced only one container, purchased out of the car boot of a passing taxi driver.

By some incredible coincidence, we've crash landed into the one African port where Manuel has a friend - working here for a few months. We'd had dinner with this guy, Ben, last night. By an additional coincidence, I spot Ben passing us out on the street. He's with a Moroccan friend, and within twenty minutes, we've sourced five twenty-five litre plastic containers.

By 2200h, they're all filled, hauled across a raft of fishing boats, and secured to the Valentina's aft deck. And we're off again.

I did not see that coming. I checked the price of FastCat back to Spain earlier.

Photo: David Lustenburger, Tangier

Thursday 27 September 2012

Schubert's No. 8, Unfinished Symphony

In the morning, we're boarded by a Moroccan gentleman who permits us to stay, but relieves all of us of our passports. Dug, Vidal and Rich each receive a follow up text. Something to the effect of "Crashed in Tangier. Sail shredded. Passport confiscated. Should be OK".

We collectively reassess our situation. The main sail is completely shredded and with little confidence in the thirty-five year old Renault, we can't go on without it. We're stuck here, but I still reckon that this is the best thing that could have happened, in so far as that the previously high risk of being lost at sea is almost wholly removed.

By some fortuitous chance, the fisherman who helped us last night knows where we can get the the sail repaired, so off it comes and off it goes, into town, with Thomas, Jean-Pierre, and our fisherman friend.

Given our insecure alongside-mooring, someone has to be aboard all day, so it's not until the afternoon that David and I get onto dry land. After a long walk through the intensely pungent fishing harbour-come-port, we make our way into Tangier town centre. Overall, I'd say it's a truly miserable little recess of the world. It's dirty and there isn't a lick of alcohol to be had.

To be honest, I'll be surprised if the sail can be repaired here. In fact, given all the repairs that I suspect are necessary, I'm reckoning that this is 'game over' for us. I can't imagine how we could continue as we are, on the other hand, we can't leave Valentina here. If the engine holds, maybe we could get back up to Spain or Gibraltar - if.

That said, whilst in town, anticipating my death, I manage to work around the French keyboard to email a pre-emptive Mayday to Dug, Vidal and Rich:


"...The boat - yacht valentina - is a death trap. we left barbate, but have crash landed in tanger, morroco after wind shredded the main sail. the engine, like the boat, is 35 years old and both water pumps and the fuel pump have been repaired with scotch tape. theres very little safety equipment - no jackstays, no flares, unsure about quality of life jackets. so far, mostly the water stays on the outside of the boat, mostly.
We are currently rafted up to a fishing vessel. if the sail is repaired today we will leave and hope to reach gran canaria in 6-11 days.
So if i dont return communication after that, i have probably died. I can only tell my family as much the timeline-  mother would be too horrified by the reality. i am horrified by the reality.
boat owner is a german, Thomas EXXXXXX <t.exxxxxx@gmx.net>, and is with us - french skipper/1 swiss/1 austrian/2 german/me

yacht Valentina, registered in Hamburg, Germany 
if Im in trouble and you cant get hold of liam neeson, the germans might arrange a search. "



Wednesday 26 September 2012

Shot Down in Flames

I'm in the top bunk of the cabin on the starboard side with a inward window that looks out onto the floor of cockpit. For the heat, the window is always open, despite it bringing in the noise of the two on shift.

My shift is third and final shift of the night, starting 0500h, but I'm woken by some noise from the deck at 2300h or so. I can't make out exactly what's happening, but I sense that something isn't quite right. I'm listening to try and work out if it's a fatal problem, but I don't hear any overt panic or terror, so I guess it's just a standard manouvere - tacking or jibing; a sail going up or a sail going down.

I'm woken again, this time Manu is at the door of the cabin. He tells me something's broken and we're making an emergency stop. Everyone is called up on deck.

It's a little after One in the morning and apparently the main sail has ripped in half. Skipper, Jean-Pierre, has decided we're coming into Tangier, Morocco. The sail is already down, concertinaed and tied onto the boom, but I can see a frayed tear on one part of it. I'm not entirely surprised by the sail tearing. Both the main and the jib sail must be at least five years old. Both are stained brown, more so in patches, and their age is most apparent along the creases, where they've been folded up and carelessly left to rot. Our crippling leaves me more relieved than anything. Back on land, we'll have time to sort out our increasing number of noticeably broken and missing parts.

As we come into the large harbour at Tangier, we soon find that this isn't a marina like those we came from. Back at Rota and Barbate, we'd been parked up in a pontoon mooring alongside tens of other leisure yachts. Looking for a space amongst our potential neighbours here, the crowd is commerical fishing vessels, a pair of military cruisers and a FastCat ferry. We're really not meant to be here.

For lack of choice, the skipper picks the dockside space behind two vessels of the Moroccan naval fleet. My crewing speciality is the leap from boat to dock or pier as the skipper brings her in, so delicately as possible. The challenge is usually in the distance - the earlier you can make the jump, the faster you can get a rope and secure the tub to the dock, without the skipper having to plow in and bounce off the fenders. In this case, it's all the more fun because the water line is low against solid concrete dock. Thankfully, Jean-Pierre is perfectly competent at the helm. I'm able to make a small hop, then a scramble up onto the dock to run up and down securing the Valentina's bow and stern. Before I can get my knot tied, I'm pointed to a young Moroccan serviceman who's emerged from one of the cruisers. At a glance, I'm pretty sure we're not welcome here, but French speaking Manu is soon alongside having the conversation. My distant hopes of tying a knot, eating some leftovers and getting back to bed quickly go up in smoke.

After being politely dispatched from the naval dock, we're coming into the opposite dock behind a raft of steel fishing vessels, all of which are three-, four- or five- times our size. The air is thick with the smell of fish and an increasing drizzle. Whilst one lone fisherman is keen to help us, several more appear in a nearby doorway with expressions mixed between disgruntled and menacing. We're assured that another fishing vessel will arrive at any time and will be looking for this spot. We're out.

The rain moves up through the gears, upto torrential - African torrential. A short circuited light fitting on one building is periodically shooting blue sparks. Our friendly fisherman guides Jean-Pierre and I through the network of aging dockyard buildings to find a space to park up for the night. There's no way over nor around the fresh, wide, and ankle deep puddles and pools. Shoes and socks are soon entirely saturated.

As Skipper gently brings us in alongside another fishing vessel, I'm calculating how far I can jump, what I can grab on the opposite boat, and likelihood that I'll slip and fall down into the dirty brown brine between the closing gap of two steel boats. I'm very pleased with my distance as I land and climb over to secure us. I feel my arm grabbed and turn to find a big fat hairy old Moroccan, who proceeds to oust us once again.

Closing on Four AM, we make our fourth parking manoeuvre. Manu makes the first leap from the stern. He catches the rope to secure us, but  Valentina is pulling away. For a moment, I'm admiring the heroic scene of Manu holding a twenty-five ton wayward steel yacht on a twelve millimetre rope, then rush to jump over at our bow to join him. The cabin lights switch on in the boat we're parking alongside and I see a face appear at the window. The face disappears and the light goes out. This time we're finally given mercy.

Tuesday 25 September 2012

Under African Skies

Although we landed successfully and safely with good use of wind, I'm slightly conscious that the boat still is not quite 'shipshape.' My greatest concern is the obvious absence of life jackets and safety gear. I asked Thomas before we left, and he assured me we had a few life jackets and jackstays - lines that run front-to-back on both the port and starboard lengths of the boat, onto which you can tether yourself for deck work in rough water. I'd followed up on the assurance and found two or three foam life jackets - though, you can't sail with large foam blocks strapped to you. My old pal, Captain Chris on Pelagic, was safety conscious, to what I thought was the extreme. That was a valuable lesson to me. He'd never have considered leaving the harbour without a full compliment of fully functioning, fully tested safety equipment - the kind of safety equipment that you entrust your life to. Here and now, the life jackets are highly questionable and our emergency raft is in a bag with a written confirmation that it was last tested in 2004. But, noone else is making a fuss and I don't make fuss.

Aside from those missing parts, I'm told that we weren't able to repair the navigation nor anchor lights before leaving. And since leaving, we've also discovered that the light on the mast-top windvane doesn't work, and the lack of a cockpit light for even the compass might make helming a given course at night - 'steering' to landlubbers -  somewhat difficult. In the kitchen, we've failed to repair both the fridge the left-hand cooking hob, which is quite a limitation on the culinary feats I might like to attempt. Most comically, the moment the boat heeled over yesterday, all the drawers began edging open or shot across the saloon. There's still a melon rolling around somewhere down there. Apparently, Valentina was last in the water about five years ago.

I'm quietly hoping someone else will realise the more obvious deficiencies and we'll spend some more time in harbour here until everything is fixed and sourced.

Despite what, in my eyes, are reasons not to sail, Thomas is still keen to push on. And so, after fencing-off all the draws with wood screws and rope. We're bound for Morrocan waters. As we start off towards the distant shadow of Africa, I fire some insurance text messages at Dug, Vidal and Captain Rich.

"Sailing out from Barbate, Spain to Lanzarote, direct. The boat is called 'Valentina'. ETA within 10 days. If I don't confirm my arrival in 12 days, please send the Spanish or Moroccan Navy. Thanks"

I know they'll take it seriously because it will be the first message they've ever received from me with more than two words - most often "OK", "Yes" or "Beer?". My mother receives a shorter less perilous version.

We setup three four hour night shifts, with the three seasoned sailors partnering we three young boys. David is appointed the principle cook, having worked in a kitchen. I might have wanted to muscle in on the job, but given the state of the kitchen, it's not going to be super-great fun. Worse though, David doesn't eat pork and Manuel isn't a big meat eater. On the other hand, I sense that Thomas, Jean-Pierre, Roland would readily kill and butcher a pig for it's delicious fleshy insides.

Monday 24 September 2012

Smoke on the Water

"Aus! Aus!" shouts Manuel as he's scrambling out from the engine room and through the narrow kitchen towards me. I don't need to call on my tenuous grasp of German to know we're in trouble. I turn and run.

The engine room is a cave in the very centre of the boat, just barely larger than the Renault diesel that it's home to. It's just big enough for someone to squeeze in for the necessary tinkering and maintenance. For much of yesterday and this morning, Jean-Pierre has been squirrelled away in there. I'm not sure what he's been doing in there, but he was pleased to get the thing running, then left it chugging whilst he, Thomas and Roland made a trip into town.

Some half an hour after they'd left, Manuel noticed a thin veil of smoke in the saloon. We went down toward the belly of the beast to have a look. It was at this point, that shouting and scrambling became necessary. Once again, I'm making a dash for the top deck, ready to dive into the water followed by a explosion of fire and shrapnel. This dash is made worse given the consciousness that Manuel and David are immediately behind me, relying on the same narrow escape route. As I get into the cockpit, I turn to look for my friends. They're not following. It seems I've jumped the gun a little, again. Manuel went for the engine switch, after which we quickly decided to let the smoke clear from positions a little way away from the most explosive parts of the boat.

That potential explosion of earlier was exciting, but my high point comes when a volunteer is needed to climb the mast to replace the main sheet - the rope that hoists the main sail from the top of the mast. I very much enjoy climbing up things, given the belief that I am safe. In the harbour, the rocking of the boat is very gentle, but is somewhat amplified by the forty or fifty foot pole I'm atop of. Nonetheless, my fear isn't of heights, so much as it is of falling to my death, so this is pretty cool.

Thomas is still keen to get underway today, and despite Manuel's reports of smoke and sparks, Jean-Pierre thinks the engine should be OK now.

The final task is twelve days of food and at least fifteen days of water for six hungry boys. It's a big task. The water is thirty or so five-litre bottles. Their transport down the pier to the boat requires a classic Strong Man style event - the Farmer's Walk. The bottles have plastic carrying loops, so I start with two bottles in each hand - one on my fingers, one on my thumb. After a couple of trips, the big Austrian joins me. He goes straight for a six bottle carry. Obviously, I have to match the impressive feat. It takes all my physical strength, and the spirit of the six-time champion, Mariusz "The Dominator" Pudzianowski to fend of the pain of the loops cutting into my fingers.

Photo: realdutchpower.nl, "The Dominator"
By Ten o'clock, we've successfully and happily completed our first leg, down to Barbate. This will be the last stop before Gran Canaria.

Friday 21 September 2012

Burn

Walking into the marina complex, there must be one or two hundred white masts in the foreground of the seaview. I spot a group of guys having lunch and feign sending a text nearby them, until I've narrowed the language down to German. I'm in time to join the boys for lunch. Thomas, Valentina's new owner, is a Berliner, somewhere in his early forties. Jean-Pierre, our French captain, hailing from Paris (obviously, if not implicitly,) is somewhere in his fifties. A strongman-built Austrian, Roland, is perhaps in his late thirties. Finally, there are two young boys, Manuel and David, Austrian and Swiss, respectively. Around the table, everyone has a beer and all but one is smoking. I'm a big fan of these continental types. The whole thing absolutely exudes the special brand of continental eurotrash nonchalance that I so fondly remember from the bank. I think that this will work.

Photo: Channel 4. Antoine, the original continental European

Valentina is a twenty-five tonne, fifty-odd foot sloop, made of steel. She looks solid. The deck is a intensely masculine mess, covered in tools, rope and wire. I'm guided down into the saloon and am pleased to find myself enveloped by dark red woods, reminiscent of any of my favourite lovely pubs. However, on a narrowly closer inspection, everything slightly crappy. The floors, and walls, and ceiling, and everything else looks to be only very loosely cobbled together. It looks like the work of a carpentry hobbyist whose enthusiasm doesn't compensate for his total absence of ability and skill. It's no matter though. The aesthetic is irrelevant, she looks solid.

Post dinner, the boys and I are sitting on deck, still with beers in hand. Our conversation twists and turns through languages as much as topics - English, German, Spanish and a touch of French. All of a sudden, we plummet into darkness. The light coming up from the saloon has switched off. In fact, all of the lights are gone. After a few seconds we each seem to notice an ever so slight and almost organic orange glow. After a few more seconds, we trace the glow to the seams of the lid on the battery house at the back of the cockpit. It's on fire. My less than heroic reaction, is to back out of the cockpit, onto the deck from which point I could leap off the exploding boat. This may be a sign that I've seen too many movies. In retrospect, I suppose it was unlikely that even three twenty-four volt could create a fiery-enough explosion for me to mimic Stallone, Willis or even early-Gibson. Roland is the quickest of us, and is able to subdue the flaming batteries with a very sharply acquired fire extinguisher.

It's unusual to have a fire on a boat, but it wasn't a big deal really. She looks solid.

Thursday 20 September 2012

She Goes Down

Beep-beep, beep-beep - the standard and classic Nokia message alert must be exactly the same as the intro of Save Your Love by KISS off of Dynasty, because that's where my mind always goes. (It is. I just checked. It's a D#.) The news has finally arrived. The boat, Valentina, has finally been picked up off sticks and set down in the water. This is actually going to happen. My time and I are justified.

Wednesday 19 September 2012

Mortal Kombat

I don't consider this a holiday and don't feel a great need to 'tourist' the city. I'm rarely interested to be in any one place for more than two days, much less somewhere I've already been. I should only be passing through, but still there's no solid news from the boat.

The one thing I am interested in is seeing a bullfight - the ultimate battle of Man Vs. Food. Alas, my time here will, or at least should, narrowly miss the next one. I settle for the tour. I'm pleased to find I can understand the best part of Spanish spoken tour, but I'm drifting in and out.

Apparently, the matadors canter about the ring on horseback and jab the bull with pointy sticks for a little while before, in my mind at least, someone shouts "FINISH HIM!", the fatality is performed, then, presumably, the same chap yells "FLAWLESS VICTORY".

Tuesday 18 September 2012

Keep the Faith

I'm still a little desperate to hear something concrete from my German and his boat. They're a relatively short hop on the bus, but I'm better of stuck here than there. I need a back up plan to negate the failure of being boatless. I'm in a corner or Spain that I've already seen, and I hate backtracking, so I'm in a lousy position to continue my round the world mission  The only option is to hop over to Africa and see what those guys are upto. It's not a bad plan, but I was only meant to be out here for a month.

Monday 17 September 2012

Hot in the City

It's so damn hot outside. It's punching over thirty-five degrees out there. It's awful. I'm not inclined to being outside for any amount of time between about midday and six o'clock in the evening. The afternoon is a write off. I don't care. I can almost sympathise with the lazy, part-time work ethic around here.

Sunday 16 September 2012

I Can't Dance

Despite having sent several updates on my progress towards the boat, I've received very little. I'm materially nervous that the whole arrangement will fall apart, and I'll have to fly back. Having nailed down only a few days of sailing, that would be an intolerable failure.

Whilst sitting on my hands in front of the machine, I meet an English tourist. He's a Northern lad named Paul. He tells me he's in IT and that he's been learning salsa for five years. I've never met any dancing Northerners. For that matter, I've never met any dancing Englishmen. We don't go in for that sort of thing. Paul is quite enthusiastic about visiting a salsa club and tries to sell it to me on the basis that it will be full of chicks. That's all very well, but as a guy who can't dance, and can't speak conversational Spanish, the project would be a Stretch-Armstrong-stretch of all of my already tenuous abilities. It's a horrible idea. I like wooden pubs and ale. And Metallica. Contrary to sense or logic, I agree to going.

I have a dangerously strong predisposition to agree most things. Any old shit. Whatever's going. I also have an absolute disposition to follow through with everything I agree to. If I agree to something stupid in the heat of the moment, you can be damned sure I'll do that stupid thing in the cold light of the next day. More often than not, it shouldn't, and doesn't, end well, and I shouldn't expect this will be an exception.

On the walk to the salsa discotheque, I want, very much, to back out at great speed, but I can't think of any clever way to do it. I guess, If I can stick it out for forty-five minutes or so, I can run for the hills with integrity intact.

The spirit world has finally thrown something back my way. The club is closed. I feign some degree of disappointment and go so far to entertain a short walk around to try and find another club. Little does Paul know, I'd rather stick my nob in a beehive. Ha! Perfect.

Saturday 15 September 2012

Show Me the Way

My bus has landed in Seville. I've been here before, which fits nicely in with my connect-the-dots circumnavigation. Though, it only serves to connect Gijon with Barcelona, Faro and Porto, none of which is not especially useful.

I recognise and remember this bus terminal, but it's not the one I was expecting. There's no signs pointing to the centre of town. Ten minutes ago I was certain I knew the way to the centre of town from the terminal, but this isn't that terminal. For the apparent lack of accurate memory, I can only choose a random direction. I could ask, but I like all real men, I hate, hate, asking for directions, most especially when should know the way.

Twenty minutes later and a few degrees hotter, it crosses my mind to question whether I've actually been here before. Maybe, I've confused it with somewhere else. Valencia? No, I've definitley been here.

Eventually, I stumble across a square that I recognise vividly. Towards the cathedral, it all comes flooding back. I remember the river, the bull ring, Arianne 4, the sports bar, and Ben and Matt and Catalina. I should be able trust my own navigation to find the hostel.

Another forty minutes later and I realise I should never have trusted myself. This place is an impossible labyrinth of alleys. I can't remember the hostel. I remember everything else in near-perfect detail. I'm racking my brain as hard as I can to picture any part of it, but I've got absolute zero. Something truly awful and disturbing must have happened to in that place.

Naturally, Tourist Information is closed on Sundays. Presumably, the Spanish don't expect we're here on Sundays, or perhaps they're just not too bothered whether we are or not.

By luck rather than judgement, I come across a generic hostel two short streets later.


Friday 14 September 2012

Space Oddity

A quick stop in Caceres has turned into an overnight. Not that there's all that much here.

It's another old town. A pretty small one, but a pretty pleasant one too. Near-ancient narrow alleyways wind this way and that. I'd not be too surprised if Harrison Ford, and to a lesser extent, Shia LaBeouf came racing around the corner on a pair of Honda Tornados, followed by the Russians, or Neo-Nazi's, or whoever the politically correct flavour-of-the-month evildoer is these days. And aliens, apparently. Why not. Actually, there's any number of rational and congruous answers to 'why not.' That was a stupid ending.

Thursday 13 September 2012

Sledgehammer

I´ve impressed myself, by completing  my comic book, El Poderoso Thor, front to back. I´m not certain that I understood the storyline, but I suspect I do and it simply is a stupid as I think it is. Why was Loki hanging out with the Silver Surfer? And why is The Mighty Thor, God of Thunder, a human doctor transformed by picking up Mjölnir the Hammer. I think the Swedes might beg to differ.

I´ve struggled to find a book about sailing. I don´t know how to use a book shop. Why are all the books stood upright so that I can´t read the spines? Outside one shop, there´s a small stack of old books on sale for a Euro each. I spot one, illustrated with a fine looking schooner-rigged galleon and a lady-vampire-werewolf - El Velero de Los Vampiros. This is certainly worth a Euro.

The book introduces the characters in the opening page and tells of tale involving no less than un borracho que ha hecho de todo and un invisible lobo de mar. Do all books features well-travelled drunks and invisible sea dogs? What have I been missing?

Wednesday 12 September 2012

Southbound

I´ve arrived in Salamanca, without ever having heard of it before. The city centre is pretty incredible. I´ve see a lot of "old towns", but everythng before is pale in comparison. The sheer scale of near-ancient cathedrals, university buildings and palaces, then the sheer number of them makes an impression.

A number of the restaurants have Menu del Dia adverts promising starters, mains, dessert, bread and a drink for a paltry ten Euros. I´m sure there´s a catch, but it´s worth a look.

I´ve chosen a café-come-restaurant, La Luna, and take a seat outside. There´s a choice of eight starters, but I have fond Spanish memories of gazpacho soup. This memory will be equally fond. I don´t know who invented tomato soup, but full credit to the Spanish for serving it cold. The wine arrives in a simple decanter, but there´s at least three glasses in there. Maybe this is the catch. Nontheless, I finish the wine, more than I need or want, as well bread, the main, dessert, and coffee. They take ten Euros and a tip of all the change I can dig up.

I´d wanted to go for a run tonight, but after four glasses of red wine, a couple of cigarrettes is just as good. I wander off, drunk and merry, back into the city to the sounds of Guns n´ Roses on the Israeli iPod that I´ve now claimed as my own.

Tuesday 11 September 2012

Around the World

No word back from the Rota-Gran Carania job. My next back up plan is to continue my stop-start land & sea circumnavigation of the world. I´ve got two weeks in 2009, from Budapest to London, then two weeks in 2010 from Cyprus to Budapest, but I need to connect my 2011 legs from Faro to Barcelona with Lyon. Of course, Gran Canaria would get me to an ideal position to go for the tranatlantic leg.

I´m comfortable enough here, but I don´t much care for being in an ale-less place more then a two days and this is getting itchy. In the mean time, having had my previous diccionario and Spanish comic stolen by an evil  spirit, I´ve replaced them both. For lack of selection, I´ve gone with El Poderoso Thor.

My somewhat desperate midnight email check finds success. It´s time to head south.


Monday 10 September 2012

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner

Back in Gijon, we´ve got the internet hooked up in the boat and I´m looking for a plan B to avoid going home prematurely. Right on queue, as one door closes, another opens - it´s probably something to do with air pressure in the room. An email has turned up from a German whom I wrote to a few weeks ago. He´s got a space on a delivery from Rota to Gran Canaria. That sounds like it would make a fine plan B.

In the meantime, I can hang out on the boat with Captain Andy. We get on well. We take turns playing chef. We swill tea in the afternoon and grog in the evenings. And we spin long nautical yarns about fearsome sailors and creatures of the deep sea.

Sunday 9 September 2012

Spindrift

Our final journey is a return to Gijon where Alibi III will sit out the winter. Today we´ve got just a little wind. It´s enough to sail, but it´s in the wrong direction. Just for some fleeting moments of real sailing and the sound of gentle spindrift, rather than the low chug of the big BMW downstairs, we enjoy a short joyride.

As I´m amateurishly and clumsily trying to hold a course close to the wind and we briefly touch as high as four knots.

Saturday 8 September 2012

Wind Below

My passage as skipper is uneventful, though for a second day, listless winds leave us motoring, with the main sail up only up for stability. As we English seafarers like to say: "If it were blowing any less, it would be sucking". And as we English seafarers like to do, we drink mug upon mug of builder´s tea.

Avilés´ centre of town is quite pleasant, despite plumes of thick white smoke regularly mushrooming up from its nearby industrial surroundings.

A banner indicates we´ve just missed the Eighteenth Annual Avile Beer Festival. What a shame.

Friday 7 September 2012

Day Tripper

News has arrived from England and not all is well. Unfortunately for us, this unpleasantness will require Andy to return home, which effectively ends our trip.

Neither of us are best pleased, but we´ve no options. It will be a week before he´s able to return to England, and that means we can at least get a little sailing done in the interim.

We´ll head to Aviles tomorrow, and Andy offers the job of skipper for this leg of the journey to me. My Day Skipper theory was back in November and has since gone untouched. The method for calculating tide heights in a secondary port don´t exactly rush back to me. With a little help, I manage to scrap together a passage plan, identify window of opportunity and get idea of the pilotage into Avilés. I´m sure I could just wing it, if need be. 

Thursday 6 September 2012

Drive

I´m finally back on the sea, and I´m very much enjoying bobbing about, despite the wind being out of favour, leaving us to motor-sail the journey. The coast between Ribadeslla and Gijon is quite pleasant - reminiscent of north Wales, we think.

Wednesday 5 September 2012

Cocaine Blues

I´m awake at five o´clock, though, I was barely asleep last night. I´m still half-cut. I met Dug for a few beers at The Magpie. Despite both of us knowing the risks involved, three of those beers were Thornbridge´s incredible and dangerous Jaipur, punching five-point-nine percent ABV. Despite only having had four beers, I might as well have been upside down. Even when I arrived home an hour later, I was completely unable to pack. Despite being in no fit state, and still half-cut, I´m up at Five, able to throw some things into a bag, and  out of the house by 0545h.

We do like that Jaipur.

After a plane and a bus and a walk, I´m back on normal operating mode. Captain Andy introduces me to the boat, Alibi III. She´s a thirty-six foot sloop, with a rich thirty-year history that includes a stint as a drug boat which ended abruptly with her being caught with ninety-odd kilos of Africa´s finest white gold. She was impounded, while her then-owners were detained at her majesty´s pleasure. As it stands, there´s nothing more illicit aboard than builder´s tea.