Last night’s anchorage, off Tharros, will be too exposed in this wind so we head for nearby Porto Oristano, a commercial harbour in which our cruising guide says we can anchor in safety. By the time we approach it the wind has dropped to 7 knots and we feel we should really set out again, but we distrust this unsettled weather.
When we get inside the harbour things have clearly changed since the guide was published. There isn’t a single yacht in it, only commercial boats tied up to the quays. We don’t feel safe anchoring in such a rundown commercial area and decide to go over to a new marina near Torre Grande.
By the time we have tied up to a pontoon there is hardly any wind at all and we feel like wimps. The thermometer in the shade of the cockpit cubby hole registers 96°F (36°C). During the afternoon the wind rises steadily to the lower 30s but does nothing to reduce the heat. When I reach into the cockpit cubby hole for a pen my hand emerges with a red stain on it. I search for a cut but, despite fragments of glass in the cubby hole, there is none. The thermometer has accidentally become exposed to direct sunlight and its glass vial has exploded, spilling its red dye. The only other thermometer on board is an Age Concern cardboard one. Its concern is with hypothermia among the elderly and the appropriate use of heating fuel and only goes up to 80°F (27°C). On the other hand, it is probably better we don’t know what the temperature really is at present.
Sardinia has traditionally been a summer playground for foreign visitors and especially for its wealthier countrymen from the Italian mainland. By early evening a rush of boats returning from the nearby beaches gives an opportunity to observe a rather excitable example of the latter in action.
A 30ft yacht arrives at the pontoon opposite with a man sitting casually at the tiller and two bikini-clad young women on the bow; a ratio of at least two bikini-clad young women per man being de rigueur on Italian yachts. Although the man noses towards the pontoon, the wind drives his yacht sideways into a neighbouring boat. He remains sitting at the tiller, shouting instructions, while the two women hurtle up and down the side deck fending off.
To help the two girls, a member of the marina staff leaps onto the neighbouring boat to fend off in their place, while two other marina staff pass them a rope each to tie up the bow. Once the bow ropes are tied, that will be half the problem solved. Unfortunately, the boat is now almost at right angles to the one next door, and the two girls heave and strain on the bow ropes with such desperate vigour that the one in the green bikini pops out of her top. Women do not go topless in Sardinia so this attracts quite a number of other male bystanders who don’t do anything much except get under the feet of the three who are trying to help the two girls.
Meantime, their skipper bellows instructions continually from his seat at the tiller, which is too low for him to see what is going on at the front of his boat anyway. Why he is still sitting there holding a useless tiller and not applying some muscle for’ard is something only to be comprehended within the male Italian psyche. However, by hauling feverishly on a rope with one hand and holding down her top with the other, the girl in the green bikini manages to get her bow rope tied. What is needed now is for the lazy line to be attached to the boat’s stern where it can be used to pull and hold the vessel parallel to its neighbour. Leaving her companion to struggle with the other bow rope, she hauls up the lazy line and begins walking down the side deck with it towards the man on the tiller who is still bawling instructions to nobody in particular.
For the first time in the whole process, though, he is now in the right place. All he has to do is wait for her to reach the stern, take the lazy line from her, haul on it until the boat is at right angles to the quay, and then tie it to the cleat at his feet. Instead, he gets up, walks towards her, whisks it majestically from her hand and begins hauling on it from amidships which serves only to send the boat even further askew. He has also failed to check if the second bow rope has actually been tied off before he begins hauling on the lazy line. It hasn’t, the boat having been blown too far sideways for the rope to reach a cleat and the two girls end up hanging onto it like grim death.
From our berth on the pontoon opposite, this now becomes a scene from Italian opera. There is one bow rope tied, but the boat is skewed at a drunken angle and a hazard to passing boats because its skipper (The Hero) is now pulling it away from the pontoon and defeating the combined efforts of both girls (The Heroine and her Trusty Maid) to tie the second rope. And an exhausted marina attendant (Faithful Manservant) is still bent double over the rails of the neighbouring boat loyally fending off The Hero’s. Meanwhile, at the back of the stage, a growing semi-circle of male extras (The Chorus) waits for the green bikini top to shoot skyward again.
Cue an aria. For an interminable length of time The Hero stands amidships, heaving on the lazy line, bawling his complaint to the heavens in a fine tenor voice, but futilely since in the best dramatic traditions he is the architect of his own downfall. Meantime, thanks to his latest efforts, his stern is in imminent danger of colliding with another boat two spaces down. In fact, his boat is now at such an angle that he is in danger of damaging two boats, one with his bow and one with his stern.
The Faithful Manservant finally persuades him to do what a man’s gotta do and take the lazy line to the stern, which he does. But instead of tying it round a cleat when he gets there, he clutches it to his chest with both hands, leans back, legs braced, biceps throbbing, and howls his titanic lament to the heavens and an increasing wind like the tragic captain of a sinking ship.
I declare an interval and make a pot of tea. The plot has sunk into anti-climax. Then, just as I begin to despair of the denouement, the deus ex machina arrives in the form of another yacht. This one has two men and four bikini-clad women on it. They putter in, make a sharp left, fend off The Hero’s stern as they nudge their way in beside him, tie up their bow, fasten their own lazy line and then hop over their rail and tie up his; making a total of twelve people berthing one 30ft boat. Then all the actors leave the stage, followed by The Chorus, to the sound of a rousing finale as The Hero loudly describes to his rescuers what a terrible time he’s had and how he finally resolved it.
The wind roars on into the night, slackens briefly around dawn and then picks up again. The disco in Torre Grande, a mile and a half away, ends at 4am. Nevertheless, we rise from a surprisingly refreshing night’s sleep and cycle across the marina to pay our dues. It is unexpectedly expensive and we have to pedal back to the boat for more money to go shopping. We also collect our gash bag which we had forgotten to take with us the first time.
As he approaches the open skip on our return run, David does a stylish swerve and hurls the bag. Only by yanking the handlebars at the last moment, however, does his front wheel miss the bottle bank and this spoils his aim. He dismounts, retrieves the gash bag from behind the skip and sheepishly drops it in. As he is always the first to admit, his large gestures are always doomed. But it never stops him.
My knees begin to give out half way to Torre Grande and I have to stop. What with unearthing the bicycles, pumping up their tyres, my rest periods, and then putting the bikes away again afterwards it would probably have been quicker to walk. However, there is a sense of achievement.
Torre Grande’s tiny supermarket is air-conditioned, extremely cold, cramped and packed with people. After cycling in the heat and then going into its extreme cold, something strange happens to our personal thermostats so that after ten minutes inside, and despite the chill, we stand at the checkout streaming with perspiration.
Outside again we have a cold beer at a pavement café and then cycle down a side street leading to the promenade. A three-wheel Piagio truck with a small motorcycle engine wobbles towards us. In its one-seater cab two beefy men sit side by side, like sardines wedged into a can. From the intense expressions on their faces, steering appears to be a bit of a problem.
We turn right onto the promenade, which is for pedestrians only and has a policeman on duty, but we cycle slowly and carefu
lly and smile as we pass him for we have discovered that most things are achievable if you have grey hair and smile nicely.
I make it back to the marina without a rest, thanks to a following wind and a slight downward slope to the road. The beer probably helped as well. We have a lovely lunch of hard Spanish cheese, Italian bread, a local pastry like a jam tart and coffee on our terrace, as I’ve taken to calling our cockpit since an enormous Italian power boat arrived next door. What else can you call something with patio doors and large terracotta pots with shrubs in them except a terrace? David accuses me of being a closet motor yacht lover.
Our neighbours on the other side are Austrian. They always look particularly neat and well pressed although their sloop is very small and spartan. They ask us if we have a forecast, as the one in the marina window is a week old and they do not have a shortwave radio. We say we will try to get Radio Monaco at 7.15 this evening. They look pleased and we start work on a variety of chores.
As soon as you have access to a tap you do all the jobs that require lots of water. I do some laundry, and use lime de-scaler on the steam iron which no longer steams, and on our electric kettle which has been taking 10 minutes to boil two cups of water. David investigates a water leak in the starboard engine bay and we both have baths. Then we set about refilling our port tank. We test the water beforehand. We hold a glass of it up to the light, sniff it, sip it, consider it and pronounce it quite palatable. Just as the tank booms full, however, a passing Italian waves an anxious hand at the hose stretching across our deck and cries, ‘Not potable!’ He goes on to explain that the only drinking water comes from a single tap on the far end of the quay. The water from all the other taps is fit only for washing boats.
It is important that you always ask somebody relevant if the water on tap is safe to drink before you fill your tank with it, even if it seems OK. We knew that, but had become careless. It is fortunate that only one tank needed filling. The other contains good water we brought with us. Rather than go to all the trouble of emptying the tank we have just filled, we decide to use the non-potable tank for baths and washing up, and the other one for drinking and cooking. By now it is 7.45pm and we’ve missed the 7.15 Monaco weather forecast for our Austrian neighbours. The one at nine tomorrow morning will be too late for them, but we say they will probably be as well off with Channel 68 on the VHF anyway. It is then we discover that they don’t have a VHF radio either, which is pretty basic for sailing in open waters, so we tune into Ch 68 for them.
19
Torre Grande to Carloforte
We get up early next morning, having decided to empty the port tank and refill it with potable water after all. Swapping between two tanks would become a pain and leave the plumbing tainted anyway. We compare the Monaco and Italian forecasts. Conditions will probably be quite bad tomorrow, though not too bad today. It is worth making a run for Carloforte, 48 miles down the coast, to get further south and hopefully away from this bad weather. Before we leave, we go to the end of the quay to fill up with water, and then round to the fuel dock where a fisherman very generously abandons his own boat at another pump to come and help tie up ours.
Out in the bay someone has obviously been seeing just how many red marker buoys and other obstacles they can scatter about on a morning that quickly becomes so misty we have to put on our radar. We cut the corner of the Zone Prohibito – fortunately the Military is not doing any target practice there this morning – and pick our way through a minefield of fishing buoys. We have delicious Italian bread and ham for lunch. Then afterwards, with Voyager all alone and private, I abandon my swim suit so the sun can reach those parts it is rarely privy to.
By 5pm, with the wind now northerly, the afternoon has grown cooler. I have one leg back in my swim suit, and the other just entering, when there is a tremendous roar. It is a sound I recognise. I yank the straps over my shoulders and turn to see a jet fighter at eye level a quarter of a mile off our starboard side.
I am familiar with jet fighter planes, having once lived in an area where the Royal Air Force practised low-level flying. Walking our dogs along the top of the hills above our home, I would spot a black dot on the horizon and brace myself for the inevitable. You could make a run for it, but risked injury tumbling down a steep slope if you tried a vertical escape and the drop of a few yards made no reduction in the decibel level anyway. Sprinting along the ridge to avoid the plane was also futile. The pilot simply adjusted his steering a fraction and got you anyway.
Anyone up on that ridge was his prey and his intention was to pass directly over your head. He had homed in on you from another range of hills miles away across the valley and did not intend that you should escape. So you simply put your hands over your ears and waited for the pain to stop. The poor dogs didn’t have that option, of course. The pilots enjoyed it, though. I know because they twinkled their lights on the plane’s undercarriage to signal their satisfaction as they passed over my upturned face. And once, one of them was so close that I could see someone inside the cockpit smiling.
Being targeted down in the valley was even worse than up on the hills. At least on the hills you could see the plane coming. Down on the field paths, or in the village park, you were unaware of its presence until it came over the treetops at you. Then, just when you thought you might be having a heart attack from the sudden shock, the sound would hit you.
But what is a little hearing impairment – or two anxious dogs who constantly bump into things because they are always watching the sky – compared to doing one’s bit for national security and international prestige? By providing a moving target in an otherwise static landscape I was enabling Britain’s fighter pilots to become second-to-none at low-level flying. And low-level flying we are told is essential in reducing collateral damage. Having completed many involuntary tours of duty with the RAF in my younger days, however, I think it unfair of Italy’s Air Force to now expect me to provide a similar service for them. At my age. And in my present state of dishabille.
As the Italian pilot hurtles towards us my eardrums recall every agonising decibel of a jet fighter engine at close quarters. He is almost upon us when he climbs vertically and spirals away, leaving behind him a thick column of black smoke with us at the bottom of it: deafened, coughing and groping for handholds since, like the sound, it is only after the plane disappears that its air turbulence strikes you. For a few moments it is like being hit by an unheralded gale on the beam with all the sails up. It’s a thankless task, training fighter pilots.
Meanwhile, with the wind coming from the north it is now almost directly onto our stern. It begins to increase and, with a moderate sea, we begin to surf at speed. Catamarans excel with the wind behind them, giving a smooth, fast sail. With both the wind and the sea coming from behind, Voyager is flying along. The wind speed indicator is showing only 17 knots of wind and I fail to add the boat speed to it to give a true wind speed. Because it is so peaceful on board, without resistance to wind or water, it is a shock when we turn right into the channel for Carloforte Harbour and encounter the rattle and turbulence of a 27-knot wind on our beam.
Most of the navigation buoys shown in the cruising guide have disappeared, but when we turn into the wind and spray to take in the genoa we still manage to end up heading at speed for one of the few that remain. We miss it, fortunately, and head with relief for the harbour and marina. It is shallow in the channel, and the sandy patches shine bright aquamarine among the dark weed. I tie on ropes and fenders and at 6.30pm we approach the yacht club marina, only to be waved away towards the sea wall.
Those already tied up to it are anxiously staring at their fenders being crushed against the wall by the force of the wind, and one yachtsman is even putting out an anchor to try and hold his boat off it. So we anchor out instead, listen to the forecasts, and drink a glass of wine while I prepare square Spanish spaghetti and a Bolognese sauce, with a red kidney bean and olive salad to have with the Italian bread.
Carloforte has a very
pretty waterfront of tall elegant houses all in different pastel colours, lots of trees and a boulevard of tall palms. If anything it is almost prettier at dusk. Unlike most promenades with their long strings of white, uniform electric lights, here each street lamp has three round globes set at different heights. With their soft golden light, the trees dark against the pastel buildings, the occasional yellow rectangle of a lighted window and the lush wooded hills in the background, there is endless variety and enjoyment for the eye.
It is also a busy harbour. Sarena ferries arrive and depart half-hourly until sunset and there are a lot of yachts at anchor from many nations. We have an Irish motor yacht behind us, a small dark blue Australian sloop on our port side, a Finnish ketch to starboard and a Danish sloop in front. We have settled a little closer to the Australian boat than we should have liked but the anchor has set firmly and we are loath to raise it again. With the wind maintaining 27 knots, however, we share an anchor watch. We are anxious that if we and the Aussie yacht swing out of sync we might collide and, surrounded as we are, if we begin to drag we shall inevitably hit another boat. Happily, the little Australian sloop sits out the wind-tossed, anchor-wrenching night like a plank, and so do we. Not so the Danish boat which dances all night, and an American boat whose owner gives up the struggle with the sea wall in the early hours and anchors not far from us.
20
Carloforte
After a rather bumpy trip ashore next morning we tie our dinghy to a pontoon in an area which the yacht club marina uses for small local boats. A young man appears and indicates the almost empty pontoon regretfully. Our mooring there, he explains, is causing him a lot of problems. He doesn’t quite have his hand out, so we keep ours in our pockets. ‘We have no food,’ we say. ‘Only be an hour.’
Turtles in Our Wake Page 8
