By eight or eight-thirty on the second night, a little chop was starting to build up, nothing big, just a slight change in the calm seas. Neither Rick nor I remarked on it, until our conversation was interrupted by the sound of footsteps—fast, assertive footsteps—coming down from the deck. Whoever it was, he was not coming down for a cup of coffee. It was Patrick who popped into the galley. “Suit up, guys. There’s some bad weather coming our way.”
Damn, I thought. There went those extra couple hours of sleep I desperately needed.
Normally a gale forecast would have kept us in port or required a move to a safe anchorage or protected marina that could handle a boat as large as Serenity. But by the time the squall hit us, we were on the open sea. With no place to hide, we would have to face the elements. It was going to be one of the blowing forces of Mother Nature that the Mediterranean Sea is known for—a mistral from France, the libeccio, ponente, or tramontana from Italy, or the African scirocco that can bring with it the red sand of the Sahara desert—that would confront us.
I had been on stormy seas before, and although gales are never pleasant, especially for those who get the least bit queasy under any circumstances, fear wasn’t first on my mind. Work was. Everything in the galley had to be secured as quickly as possible. Then I had to go on deck to help the crew. Within minutes, I was pretty confident that nothing in the galley was capable of becoming a missile. Before climbing the ladder, I put on my foul-weather gear, which included a life vest and harnesses that could quickly be hooked to the boat in case we had to leave the cockpit and move about the deck. I took a minute to remind myself of the first law of working at sea in heavy conditions: One hand firmly on the boat, the other for the task.
Even before I reached the top step of the ladder I could feel that the wind had already kicked up and I could hear Patrick and Kevin yelling out their commands. On deck I understood why. You need to yell to be heard above the sound of the angry, building sea and increasing wind. When I got to the aft deck, I peered skyward, but the heavens and all the stars were gone, replaced by a huge black bowl that seemed to have been placed facedown over the boat and the sea around us. Patrick had the decklights turned on, but the circle of light they created around the boat emphasized the blackness that extended in every direction.
Every member of the crew was already on deck diligently tying down or stowing anything still loose, double-checking each other’s efforts to be sure that nothing could come free at an inopportune time. Rick came to tell me that the owners, guests, and Alex were in the salon. He also told me that Patrick’s plan was to hold on and keep going rather than run away from it. I was impressed. You don’t rush to meet a gale unless you believe in not only your own seamanship but that of the crew. Still, I thought, it was going to be a long night.
A few minutes later, Patrick altered course and brought the boat into the wind. Kevin, Ian, Rick, and I went out to the foredeck, the most dangerous part of the boat in heavy conditions, to drop the headsails and tie them down while Nigel pulled the storm jib from below in the forepeak. We hanked the small sail on the forestay and raised it to help stabilize the boat. This early preparation was precautionary, so no one would have to go forward later with the heavier weather on us.
Kevin was wound up tight, yelling crisp commands. “We need to put a double reef in the mainsail! Ian, ease off the main halyard jigs! Scott, center the boom! Nigel, bring on the backstays hard! Rick and David, get on the halyards and ease down the sail. Everyone else flake it as it comes down, and then haul out the reefing lines and tie them off at their points—quick!” This would decrease the area of the sail to compensate for the stronger winds and also help stabilize the boat at the aft end. Then we dropped the foresail and furled it securely as fast as we could, sans our normal meticulous sail-folding procedure.
By midnight, the swirling wind had grown to a force that I guessed to be between thirty and forty knots, with irregular gusts even higher. The boat was jumping in the deepening chop. A fluke libeccio, I was told, had met up with northwesterly winds, and we were about to be caught in the maelstrom.
With each roll from side to side or pitching up-and-down movement of the boat, I could hear the pots, pans, kitchenwares, and the bottles, jars, and cans of the pantry ingredients banging against the walls of the cabinets and against each other. I decided to go down below again to check it out. Better to have them play bumper car with each other than for them to be flying around, I decided. Then I double-checked to see that all the portholes were tightly closed in the galley and fo’c’sle. Earlier, Rick had gone into the salon and cabins to do the same. At the same time, Scott was coming out of the engine room after battening down and stowing anything loose. With the engine running at high RPM, the noise was deafening.
Back on deck I could see wave crests breaking in every direction, filling the air with clusters of spraying seawater. As we were heading into the seas, those that came on deck slapped us from head to toe, drenching us. Sometimes, the slaps came so hard I wondered if with just a little carelessness on my part, one would finally knock me down and wash me out into the black sea. It was safest to stay aft since that was the only part of the boat rigged with lifelines. Which explained the second law of prudence in foul weather: Look out for your mates, so that when the gale was over, everyone could be accounted for. I could see that the others were always looking around, taking a mental count of everyone else on deck. Patrick also ordered us to be on the lookout for other boats that might present a risk of collision.
Occasionally, between slaps, the seas calmed themselves, a momentary break between wave sets. But I kept alert while waiting for the next assault, knowing that the Mediterranean can be a tricky sea. There was a sensation of being in a car driven along a deeply pitted road, not knowing when the car and its passengers would dunk into one really deep ditch from which we would never climb out again.
The boat may have been taking a beating, but Patrick’s skill at the helm was gaining my respect. From crest to trough, the boat was pointed directly into and up over the next rising wave. He never seemed to lose control.
There are times, of course, when even the most competent captain cannot guarantee survival in a serious storm at sea. Sometimes the best chances of riding through heavy weather lie in keeping a boat like this “hove to,” which would point us almost directly into the face of the wind. But that wasn’t the end of our woes. We had to constantly make sure nothing broke in the rig or on deck. Once a boat starts to break up, things get even more challenging while the wind is howling.
Serenity’s 150 tons seemed light in the violent weather, and I caught myself wondering if the vessel had been tested in storm conditions similar to these. I was constantly listening for the sounds I had been told come before a breakup. But I heard not a creak, shimmer, or whine. Her rigid submarine-standard construction was more than enough to ward off the pounding seas being thrown at her. After sixty years of handling the forces of Mother Nature, Serenity gave us a great sense of security.
During a lull, Rick and I went down below to the salon to see if the guests needed anything. There was no way that I would be asked to prepare meals or even snacks under these conditions, but Rick offered everyone bottled water. Il Dottore nodded in the direction of la Signora, who was sitting in the corner of the salon with Alex’s head on her lap, uncharacteristically quiet and looking even more uncomfortable than the others, showing clear signs of mal di mare—seasickness.
“Richard,” il Dottore said to Rick, “maybe we can make some tisane for the ladies?”
Scott was really good about keeping the batteries fully charged, so I decided we’d use the electric teapot rather than try to heat water on the stove. I placed it in the sink in the galley to deal with hot-water splashes following a violent pitch of the boat. We also used the crew’s deep coffee mugs so that we could fill them halfway.
By now the conditions had picked up again, and even the simplest movement, such as walking from the mess table to th
e sink, took extraordinary effort. You attempt to use your thigh muscles to counteract the pitch and yaw of the boat and keep your body vertical. But after a period of time struggling to process the flood of ever-changing messages it is getting, your inner ear goes on strike. You are no longer able to signal whether you are straight upright or leaning one way or another, and so moving around becomes difficult. It was maddening for both Rick and me, especially since we were in the forward section of the boat, where it rolls the most. At one point, he sneered upward at the unseen guests. “Let’s see if Dennis wants his American breakfast now.”
Through the long night, the heavy weather would intermittently abate, then intensify, and we would be called up on deck again. I lost all sense of the clock. My only measure of time was that the boat was still afloat and we were all still alive. We had a berth reservation in Porto Cervo on the northwest tip of the Emerald Coast for arrival at some point later that day, but Patrick notified us that he planned to head considerably farther south to tuck ourselves into the lee of the island, south of the port of Olbia, to escape the continuing wrath of the wind.
A few hours later it worked. There was no single moment when we all knew we had passed out of the storm, but as the winds died down, we exchanged simple smiles that communicated more than hoops and hollers could ever have conveyed. By late morning, we were cruising up the coast of Sardinia headed for Porto Cervo. After the storm, the distant sea and the sky were a mirrored crystalline blue. The air had that hyper-clean, post-squall smell. The calm waters beneath us were truly emerald green, and the residual swell of the sea was easier to take than the night of bouncing and pounding.
After midday, we finally anchored a few miles below our destination, late but safe. The original plan, from what seemed like a lifetime ago, called for the owners and their guests to retire early, to get an early start on their first day in Sardinia in one of those secluded bays or inlets the coast is known for. Instead, they had not retired until close to dawn, when they, too, knew the danger was over. Il Dottore was the first to come up on deck. He wanted to see for himself what damage the boat had sustained and to make sure none of his crew had been injured. Everyone was tired, soaked, even bruised. But we all assured him we were okay. He suggested we take a rest as well.
We rinsed off some of the saltwater residue that had found its way into our crew quarters and tidied up the fallen clutter. Rick and I did an inventory of service ware to see what, if anything, had been broken. Nothing had been. The custom cutout shelves in the cabinets for holding the china vertical and glassware rigid proved their worthiness. Then everyone took a round of naps. Il Dottore made clear we were in no rush to get anywhere, that resting in the anchorage was fine with him.
Throughout the afternoon, the guests were awakening. As they arrived on deck, la Signora convinced them that the best remedy for the remnants of seasickness was toast with soft but not melted mozzarella and an anchovy fillet on top. No oil, no seasoning. Good thing I had provisioned some of the iconic cheese before leaving the region of Campania. I made a platter, and all were satisfied.
In the early evening, we pulled up the hook and motored until the distinctive architecture of Porto Cervo came into sight. On what was once an uninhabited coastline, buildings and homes had been designed to blend with the natural landscape by virtue of shape, color, and materials used. The curved, organic forms of the roofs and walls blended modernism with a nod to Sardinia’s dramatic coastal geography. From a distance, many of the structures were hard to see. The low rise and forms of the edifices followed the contours of the rocky terrain. In addition, clever landscaping matched the natural growth of island plants and brush. It is a fascinating sight, like nothing anywhere else. The view of the sea from these hillside residences, terraces, and private gardens must have been magnificent.
We entered the harbor under the guidance of the showy marina attendants in their overpowered inflatable skiffs that served as tug-boats. The modern marina was ringed with restaurants and high-end designer boutiques. Everything was very clean and well maintained.
After the events of the past forty-eight hours I needed to take a quick walk onshore just to get off the boat. And it only took a few steps to experience what it felt like to have sea legs. It was kind of funny, walking on land with a slight, uncontrollable sway as if still in a rolling sea. Others onshore probably thought I was either drunk or a neophyte. Regardless, I knew this would be our final port of call with the owners on board, and I experienced a momentary lift.
Sardinia is Italy’s second-largest island, a rugged mountainous land that lies about as close to North Africa as to the mother country only 112 miles away. Because of its colorful history, the island can be described as part Italian and part none of your business. Its motto could be “Don’t bother us.” So if the sardi—Sardinians—are a bit xenophobic, it’s with good cause. The island has been held by just about every invading force in Mediterranean history. As the coast was vulnerable to numerous attacks, the mountainous interior hosted longer occupations.
First it was the Phoenicians who decided the island was a perfect base for western Mediterranean trading. The Carthaginians under Hannibal followed, giving way in a skirmish to the Romans, who in turn let the prior inhabitants move inland. After the Romans, the Vandals arrived, while the sardi staged a guerrilla war on the coastal occupiers until they grew weary, allowing the sardi to come back and reclaim their shoreline cities. But conquest didn’t end, as Byzantines, Saracens, Spaniards, Genovese, and Pisans all had a hand in Sardinia’s affairs, the latter two being called upon in an effort to keep the Moors out. The kingdom of Sardinia formed during the later occupations, and eventually, while under the rule of the house of Savoy, Sardinia was annexed to Piedmont. Finally, both regions joined what was to become a unified Italy in 1861. With such a pedigree, even though Sardinians speak Italian, they remain a distinct kind of Italian.
That is, until speculators and entrepreneurs armed with blueprints and cold cash did what the invading armies didn’t do—develop a section of the island’s northeastern coastline into an exclusive reserve for the very rich. A longtime yachtsman’s secret, one of the last undiscovered stretches of land in the Mediterranean offered small coves and bays, white sandy beaches, and some of the clearest water in the sea. Development began in 1961, led by Aga Khan IV—a prominent Middle Eastern philanthropist whose hereditary post required him to engage in social and community leadership—and a consortium of high-profile Italian architects. With strict building codes and high costs of entry, the result was the Costa Smeralda—the Emerald Coast—an aesthetically and environmentally pleasing luxury oasis.
If I harbored any hope of even a brief Sardinian vacation, it was dashed by a visit the next morning from la Signora, clearly past her mal de mare. “Davide,” she said, “we will be hosting a final end-of-ferie party at the end of the week.” She told me there would be somewhere in the “vicino”—neighborhood—of sixty guests. I made it a point to hit the supermercato as soon as we got back to port that day. It was the only food near the harbor, and I had to make sure I could provision the event. If I couldn’t find it all there, I’d have to figure something out fast.
But further bad news was awaiting me when I went up to the foredeck a short while later. Another boat was approaching us, a fairly large motor yacht.
“It’s the kids,” Rick said.
Sure enough, even from the distance, it looked like the yacht that was next to us in Monte Carlo.
“See that boat behind them,” Rick said, pointing to what looked like a maxi-class sailboat in tow. “That’s the kids’ day sailer. What a toy.”
The yacht was heading right for us. Rick then reported he had caught la Signora’s voice saying over the radio in the chart house, “Vieni, vieni,”—come, come—and I realized this was no random meeting but a prearranged rendezvous. I soon caught sight of the owners’ children, and then it hit me.
La Signora was not going to welcome the children without serving
them something. I went below, like a kid slumping way down in his seat to avoid being called on. La Signora followed me down to the galley. “There will be fourteen at the table, and I’d like to sit down in forty-five minutes.”
When she saw the lack of joy on my face, she reminded me, “Davide, an emergency menu, per favore, like we discussed.” She gave me approval to use pasta for the main course.
I had made plans to serve eight a lunch of shrimp and tomato salad with basil dressing, baked ricciola—an amberjack—with peperonata, and a parfait dessert of peaches and strawberries with whipped mascarpone. I wasn’t going to throw away my earlier prep. This is where the great extenders—bread, pasta, and cookies—came in.
I began with assorted crostini—thinly sliced pieces of toasted bread served with a variety of toppings. For the first, I gently baked the amberjack, flaked it, carefully mixed it with some julienned pieces of green olive, lemon zest, lots of minced parsley, and light-style extra virgin olive oil. For number two, reworked canned chickpeas became a spread to be topped by the cooked shrimp, which I sliced in half lengthwise, thereby doubling the yield. I finished these with a drizzle of olive oil and a few turns of black pepper. I diced the tomatoes, added a little garlic and more seasonings, mixed in the basil dressing, and used that as the third topping.
For the second course, I chopped the peperonata and blended it with some marinara—another great extender—that I had made previously for the crew lunch. Some crushed chiles to make it pepitoso, the way they liked it, and ecco!, instant pasta sauce. La Signora preferred penne since it was easier to eat at a crowded table. I finished the dish by grating over the pasta Sardinian pecorino—a dry and pungent sheep’s milk cheese that I had picked up earlier at the supermarket.
Mediterranean Summer Page 23
