Greetings from the middle of the Ionian sea.
My yachting research - ‘Below Deck’ and ‘Pirates of the Caribbean’ complete, I have to say that things are going better than expected.
To be fair, Hugo and I had agreed that success would be
a) my actually getting on the boat,
b) my actually staying on the boat, (I packed to bail, rather than bail out, which I hope will not be necessary)
and c) my being to sailing what a manatee is to Renaissance art, that this nautical adventure would not cause any friction in our peaceful happy lives.
Achieving a) above was actually more challenging than you would think as the gangplank ended a gazelle’s leap from the shore. When I say ‘gazelle’ it was more of a stifled shrieky leap lacking all grace and elegance although the boat kindly didn’t gasp and readjust her ‘trim’ with me on board. I looked back at shore, now a bloodcurdling leap away, with longing regret, the same look of the cat when it stares out of the cat box bars knowing it is going to the vet/cattery.
I was fully focused on the safety briefing so if it all goes bottom up you, submarine stylie, you will find me in one of the two semi detached life rafts setting off flares like a Catherine wheel.
We are headed from Rhodes to Capri via crusader castles and shops.
I am not sure how long we have been on the boat now as time stopped being day and night and turned into four hours shifts. I spend half the night awake and half the day asleep (even though not on a ‘watch’ but because sleeping on a boat is like trying to sleep in someone with indigestion’s stomach. Honestly some of the noises, creaks and throbs are somewhat alarming) so I have no idea what day or time it is.
I made it through an hour of Hugo’s first watch. We saw shooting stars and the Milkyway. But I was convinced Hugo was going to slip on the dew or spontaneously shoot into the water and disappear forever and the urge to save him by gripping hold of him was making me nervous.
At one point the radio burst into life with a PANPAN requiring a tug, and then a very panicked chap started shouting for COASTGUARD TURKEY without giving the name of his boat or position whilst in the background an alarm wooed. I don’t know what the nautical equivalent of headless chicken is, I am going to speculate it was very ‘flappy sails’ and he ‘needed to get a reef in’ or ‘check the depth of the charts’ who knows? Then Hugo accidentally leant on the throttle and it all went a bit Ascot races for a moment, so I thought it best if I returned to the cabin I hoped that Hugo would survive without me as guardian angel.
Given that Hugo and I don’t usually exhibit signs of life until after a defibrillating coffee and cornetti during which we evaluate whether the other has had a good night’s sleep, this has been a bit of an ‘adjustment’ i.e. shocker Hugo, knowing life hangs in the balance, still brings me tea in the morning and now I congratulate him on surviving the night.
I don’t have sea legs. I have normal land legs, except now I trip up and lurch on land. I don’t know how I managed to get lurid blue toothpaste sprayed on the en suite door but I am now paying more attention. Going to the loo is now something you literally have to brace for as it like trying to stay on one of those bucking bulls you get at bachelor parties. I am having a pelvic floor upgrade. Also I have gone full pirate headdress on account that my hair kept stabbing me in the face. Perhaps fluorescent green was unwise making me look like a tanned Martian. Our wardrobe, now smells ‘funky’ like something between a heated sports laundry basket and ‘old sea’. Luckily the islands we have visited have a delightful nasal cleaning smell- salty sea breeze, baked stone and earth, layers of herbs and grasses better than any sea scented candle.
I am gradually embracing to the sailing lark. Firstly, this is principally because the boat hasn’t sunk or tried to kill me yet . This always helps more amicable relations. Generally, the captain treats her with iron -fist-in- velvet-glove gentleness, so no slamming down on waves or death defying flinging from side to side hoping not to be knocked out/over board in some sort of Neptune’s boom-boom pub game. That said, and the second possibly related reason is that we haven’t actually been doing any sailing yet. We have been on the motor all the way, at a leisurely chug, as it has been flat calm with no wind. It feels like ‘being on the motor’ is like ‘on her period’ in yachting lingo. They put the sail up briefly but it went ‘flappy’ and it is quite clear that this term, borrowed from the bedroom no doubt, is a bad thing. I guess the boat wants to be pinned down with a hard sail. Who knows?
Now that we are acquainted I treat the yacht with revered respect and politeness. I have apologised for saying she looked like a submarine and being rude about her name. When in the morning we roll up her drawers I call her Princess (as a sweet nothing rather than a name change so as not to upset Neptune) and winced when the Capt. called her ‘squat’ (although I did notice that some of the zips are a bit tight) us beamy ladies should stick together, we are built for comfort not hurtling around like aquatic racing snakes. I am advised it is called ‘gin and tonic sailing’
Food on board has been delicious enough to tempt the most Wygovy challenged palette. Watermelon, feta and mint salad with a wine vinegar glaze will become a staple at the villa. My reputation precedes me and I am thankfully not allowed to cross the threshold into the galley.
In my role as ballast, I am not required contribute to conversations about wind or lazy shits (technical sailing term) as to be honest there’s only so many times you can say ‘what a lovely wave, and, another one, how lovely’ I am trying hard not to faux pas (take shoes off, don’t get sand on the boat, tut if I see a ‘flappy’ sail on another yacht) I think my inability to dive has passed without notice as well as my ‘alarmed Meercat’ swimming technique which keeps my hair dry. Our games of I spy are remarkably short with the letters W and S featuring heavily.
We have visited some lovely islands- Rhodes, Crusader castle, hugely tempting shops, just lovely people, haunting ghost wails from the wind in the rigging. I love a good ship based ghost story so was hoping for inspiration for a blockbuster classic ghost story. (It didn’t happen.) Amongst my top ever films are Mrs Muir’s ghost- partly responsible for inspiring me to pick up a quill, and The Flying Dutchman (Not Titanic) If you listen carefully you can hear the rigging’s ghost howls and moans in the background noise of this video.
On day one of the sailing, I confess I hid in our cabin and burst into floods of tears when they actually untied and pushed away. I know that emotion and reason don’t mix. At one point I thought a full melt down panic attack was coming (we were about half a boat length from the side, so within swimming distance if abandoning ship was called for) but thankfully I got a grip and put on my big girls knickers. Since then I’ve been okay, only taking the odd handful of seasickness pills.
We saw dolphins!
Santorini- on my forever wish list, was everything it promised to be. White painted houses like icing on a cake of rock surrounded by dark blue deep water.
I absolutely loved this dream-becomes- reality book shop, with poetry written on drift wood and shady places to browse and be inspired. We saw the donkeys, stood in the baking sun, but only from the distance otherwise I would have wanted to rescue them.
We had moored away on an outlying island, opposite a fabulous restaurant a short stretch of water from our boat, swimming off the sea, surrounded by timeless beauty and ancient dwellings, and its own wall of China snaking up the hill.
It was otherworldly. The light in the water spun in a sunburst, and when I tried to take a photo my shadow was caught and moved in the waves so my shadow quivered like a winged mermaid.
I had tried to clear my desk dealing with all of the daily nonsense that blights my life before we left. Some of it lingered on. But then, when I found out I’d been sent the wrong document, I threw in the towel. I cannot work on 30 page legal documents without a printer whilst bouncing around on a boat. So I am officially on holiday for the first time in years, as untethered from the daily stress as we are from land, and that is great. We haven’t thought about England, except for when Harry and Meghan said they were coming back to Blighty. We are not sure who invited them. Hugo speculated that perhaps they will be returning on a dingy to claim welfare. I have to say I always thought that Megan was brave naming her brand, ‘As ever’ as it could so easily be converted to ‘what ever’
We sailed past Greek island after Greek island by favourite Adamantas named after the 80s singer. We went past islands where the last mini European elephant/mammoth had lived. We went past an island where jews had been shipped-wrecked on their way to a new life in Israel, I am not sure if they settled or made it that last leg. Each island its own story to discover. Next time.
No more dolphin sightings yet. The turtle/sting ray turned out to be a raft of cardboard but that is a world of improvement from the last time I paddled out enthusiastically in Turkey having spotted turtles only to find, they weren’t turtles and I was up shit creek with a paddle.
Methoni, shallow sandy beach, long crusader castle with a motte castle that could have been designed by a child with a bucket and spade. Magical lampposts to transport you to imaginary places, nooks over waves and the dropping sun, pastel painted candlelit churches, fields perfumed with herbs and salty sea, tripping up over history. Tales of pirates and crusades.
Delightful. Especially the splitting figs hanging within picking distance of Hugo’s arms. In my view, figs, like kisses, are sweetest when stolen.
Now is the long haul- Greek islands to Sicily, home to Italy. 48 hours. Excuse typos- bouncing.
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