From Gibraltar to Montenegro \article being updated\ 20 May 2014
And so we covered more than 1,600 miles to Malta, and another 500 to Montenegro—a total of 2,100 nautical miles from Gibraltar to Montenegro and five months at sea.
We stopped in Estepona, Málaga and Alicante. We called at Cartagena, Valencia and Barcelona, Nice and the Balearic Islands. Rome and Sicily, Malta, the active volcano Stromboli, and an anchorage at the foot of the Italian boot. A lot happened. We went through the unexpected experience of loneliness—something I had never suspected before .
There was one severe storm in Messina and long passages in near-gale-force winds, when the only thing distinguishing you from a rotten vegetable is the speed at which you leap out on deck 🙂 (They say Admiral Nelson suffered from seasickness all his life. You can tell he was a hero)...
Once we dropped a bicycle overboard in the Fiumicino Canal near Rome , though we did manage to retrieve it...
Then my leg was nearly crushed by the anchor of the neighbouring yacht, when we came down on top of her during a manoeuvre.
During the Messina storm I tried not to look into my daughter’s terrified eyes, so as not to add my own fear to them, while I held the helm and sent out distress signals....
A few sketches of sea and land. . Barcelona—Nice
The Gulf of Lion is one of the most unsettled parts of the Mediterranean, and we slipped through the 280 miles from Barcelona to Nice right between two storms.
Nice’s resort-and-cycle promenade, with its neat façades and flea market, fills the soul with Provençal bliss. Even flea markets in France are somehow very... French—with the scent of buns and cinnamon, and little round tables that the vendors cover with snow-white cloths and then set as if for a celebration: a bottle of Bordeaux, glasses, china. No sausage rolls or plastic containers.
View from Castle Hill over the marina in Nice
For four days we revelled in the sunshine of the French Riviera, looked down on the harbour from Castle Hill, and cycled out for a crisp morning baguette. Then we sailed for Corsica. . Give Us a Lift to Corsica
The open sea takes some getting used to and can be rather unsettling: the bottom is two kilometres down, and there is no land in sight. So encountering anyone is always a great joy for our little crew. Even if it is a bumblebee that has appeared from nowhere inside a slipper. Delighted that our striped passenger had not stung me in the heel, we decided it had transferred to us from a container ship that had passed recently. Ships make their tiny contribution to the migration of birds and insects. Though, to be fair, they contribute to the migration of rats and other creatures of the earth as well. Thank God our yacht had so far carried only a bumblebee and birds, which also appeared out of nowhere.
Our first illegal emigrant was a little bird with no sea legs whatsoever, some kind of wagtail. She peered cautiously through one window, then another, and even knocked. We sat without moving a muscle, afraid the startled bird might launch herself out over the open sea. The wind ruffled her feathers and blew her tail sideways, while she begged for a place to stay. After wandering about the deck, the wagtail made herself a nest beside the mast among the coiled lines. At dawn, sensing land drawing near, the bird disappeared. Now I am in her place, curled into a ball as I try to take down the sail before entering a deserted green bay.
There ought to be a buoy somewhere around here; it is marked on the nautical chart. That is what we will moor to. To the right of the entrance to the bay, we can see a stone building with a tiled roof, and farther on, some sort of semi-inhabited farmstead. During the summer season, the owners of the buoys charge for their use. But in winter there is no one to collect the fee. Only the valiant French army remains vigilant. Today it sent out a border-patrol helicopter, which flew in from the shore, hovered above us, and, finding nothing suspicious, departed the way it had come, to the delight of both young sailors.
photo to come 🙂
The anchorage is only a few dozen kilometres south of Ajaccio, Napoleon’s home town. Recalling his homeland, the Corsican noted that the incomparable fragrance of its flowers could be detected while still at sea. The intoxicating aroma really does induce a kind of aching happiness. You want to fall into the grass and gaze endlessly at the high sky. Meanwhile, the girls are delighted to have reached the bay, examining the shore through binoculars as they wait for the evening film screening they had been deprived of at sea.
View from the hill over Bonifacio Marina. Corsica
A day later, Lady Mary set course for Bonifacio , and from Corsica our crew headed to Rome and Sicily. After a month’s respite in Malta, where we made some wonderful new friends, the final dash to Montenegro proved fairly straightforward, except for the first day, riding the waves to Syracuse in Sicily.
The Road to Rome and a Leak in the Bilge
On the way to Rome, we discovered a leak in the hull. The bilge pump regularly announced it with a hum. After inspecting the bilge, we found the leak aft, where the rudder stock enters the hull. Seawater was seeping through the joint directly beneath our bunk. After dismantling the bed, the captain contorted himself into a position from the Kama Sutra and perched on a narrow ledge to seal the leak with some kind of sticky plastic compound that sets even underwater. I helped. Bouncing over the waves while hanging above the bilge is tremendous fun for the vestibular system. In between, my husband comforted me with the news that practically every boat leaks somewhere.
In Rome, we needed to close out our Schengen visas: our permitted three-month stay in the eurozone was coming to an end. I was plagued by doubts about whether Malta would let us in afterwards. But the immigration officer stamped the “Crew List” (the list of all crew members) without even looking at the visas. Our passports were returned unstamped. It turned out that for those arriving by sea, the Maltese stamp the “Crew List” without requiring a visa. They say maritime law provides a special clearance procedure for island states in the eurozone. Neither the children nor I were ever seen by the officials. Naturally, this permission assumes you will leave by the same route.
The Warm Bays of Malta
Off the coast of Montenegro we finally experienced the kind of yachting people dream about: you sit on the sun-drenched deck, sipping orange juice, while the children in sun hats throw pebbles into the water.... And ahead lies an easy sail along shaggy slopes with waterfalls and fairy-tale towns.
The brain is trying to process a mountain of impressions, the soul misses home and loved ones, and the body is accumulating new bruises :). The children perform feats of heroism in their battle with seasickness , moor the boat with consummate skill, and sew clothes for a doll. They are also discovering the present and the past of the Mediterranean, whose shores are practically encased in fortresses.
We planned a separate piece about the effect of so many fortresses on the mentality of European peoples (note dated 26 August 2016).
Malta. A bastion of Valletta’s fortifications
Malta, Ta’ Xbiex Bay: a fortress on the hill, and beyond it—another fortress, this time in the capital
Alicante, Santa Bárbara Castle. Spain
Malta has astonishing fjord-like inlets, with fortress walls on every side, and towns flowing seamlessly into one another—you cannot tell where Valletta ends and a completely different settlement begins... Back home, there are kilometres of taiga between city districts. Here, everything is crammed together.
Malta. A former fishing village
Malta. View from the fortress in Valletta
Sometimes I cannot believe I am seeing all this with my own eyes. But by the end of the journey from Gibraltar to Montenegro, as our fifth month at sea draws to a close, I am nevertheless ready to agree with Odysseus, who used to say: “Nothing is sweeter to us than our homeland and our kin.”
What did we learn from our long winter voyage?
Glossy-magazine yachting really does exist! Four months of storms, five-metre waves and wrangling with Ichthyander were merely the approach to seven days of complete relaxation in Montenegro.
Storms pass, and it takes the body about three days to get its sea legs... or it never does 🙂
Living at sea with children is possible.
The main thing aboard a yacht—just as in a tank—is to remain optimistic. Thanks to this difficult passage, we learned to get by without television, radio, newspapers, or even company. That winter, we became a team. And most importantly, we now know how life aboard a yacht differs from the dream of life aboard a yacht—and what to do about that difference :).
P.S.: Mum says we are a crazy family... looks like she’s right )))
At anchor off the Columbretes Islands
P.S.: Some of the points in this article were taken from our competition report for the My Planet portal, which won second place :).