Tenerife. How Our Dinghy Went Looking for Caves

How Our Dinghy Went Looking for Caves The wind is roaming gloomily with the clouds. Nastya settled down to her schoolwork, while we set off from Masca to Los Gigantes in the dinghy (a small boat with an outboard, also known as a tender), to look for our friends from the Russian yacht Pandion. At the marina we also spotted the French sailors who had been berthed with us in San Miguel. With the hospitality so characteristic of the Russian soul, we invited them to the anchorage at Masca . The French took the invitation literally and cast off at once. Just an hour later, their boat dropped anchor beside ours. Dima and Zhenya soon came racing over in their dinghy too. Dima told us there was a large grotto somewhere nearby, high enough for a yacht to enter. Naturally, neither the waves nor the wind could stop us setting off in search of it. Lada and I stuck our legs into a huge plastic bag and settled into the dinghy. The wind blew hard in our faces, whipping up fountains of cold spray. Very soon the entire crew, thoroughly rinsed in salt water, was soaked to the skin. There were no caves in sight. On the way, we had to return to the yacht in response to our daughter’s signal and the anchor alarm. Strong gusts had already tried a couple of times to drag the boat off her anchor, forcing us to start the engine and dig the anchor deeper into the seabed. Rescuing Lady Mary and our senior young sailor took five minutes, and then the dinghy diving began again. Going Ashore Our friends were waiting for us in the next bay, where we landed in true Jules Verne style: jumping straight into the sea fully dressed and carrying the boat ashore by hand. I stood knee-deep in the water; Andrei was in up to his waist. Lada sat in the dinghy, accompanying every leap over a wave with a shriek. There is a stone-built shelter on the shore where one could wait out bad weather tolerably well. A stack of old newspapers, well-worn boat mattresses, a makeshift hearth and even a few utensils. Everything is derelict, but someone used to live here. The sturdier structure next door apparently served as a storehouse. As usual, today’s “Robinson Crusoes” have turned the former storehouse into a rubbish dump. Even though a cross and an altar stand right on its roof, along with the inscription “Angeles 1988.” The shore is also adorned with two more signs urging people to leave the area because of rockfalls and landslides. They also say not to drop litter. But alas, few people seem to read that far... By then thoroughly frozen, we set off towards some jet skiers who had come to a suspicious standstill in front of the cliff face. A dark grotto opened in the rock. It looked unimpressive from the sea, but on closer inspection proved to be a deep cave with lofty vaults. It was about ten metres high, with a rocky landing at the back. While we explored the cave, Lada sat down on the rocks and shivered. It was echoing, damp and dark. Surely, long ago, peaceful boats must have sheltered here from brigands, and pirates from justice. But living in a cave like this would hardly be possible—the air was more like suspended water, and the damp penetrated to the bone. Even after drying them on a dry striped sailor’s shirt, our hands would not dry. Our young sailor began to whimper: “It’s dark in here. I want to go home,” just as our friends appeared against the bright mouth of the cave. As expected, the grotto had failed to impress them from the outside. They sailed straight past, unable to hear our pirate whistles. After wrapping the little sailor in a life jacket, we caught up with our friends and showed them the cave, then headed home to warm up. Our friends did eventually make it to the grotto that a small yacht can enter. But they liked it less; its only advantage was its height. “Still, now I know it exists,” a chilled Dima said, sipping ginger tea in our cockpit.