Something in the air

A cloudless sky, gin clear water and silver sands – is this the cruising dream for most of us?  Well, of course it is. And does the photo in this blog encapsulate the ideal? Well, of course it does. It could easily have been taken from a tourist brochure extolling the undeniable beauties of the Ionian.

This is Lakka – or, more accurately from this angle, Lakka Bay – an almost totally enclosed inlet that adjoins the second-largest town on the island of Paxos – which, for the record, lurks just out of camera shot behind and to the right of the photographer’s (my) shoulder. And the town is pleasant enough. There’s the usual tangle of narrow streets, the typical super-saturation of tourist shops, tavernas and restaurants, all pervaded by a general air of friendliness. Not the sort of place to offend in any way.

But it’s the anchorage that’s the main attraction. It brings in the tripper boats and visiting yachts, the human cargo of which are destined to leave with their pockets somewhat emptier than when they arrived. As you may have gathered from the photo, the bay’s bottom is of sand with around 3-5 metres of water over it, pretty much wall-to-wall across its span. Anchoring could hardly be much easier nor the results more secure – though there are skippers who confound even the easiest challenges by making things extremely difficult.

But I stray. It’s the photograph we should concentrate on. Alluring though it is, it conveys its information through only one of our senses – sight. Touch, sound, taste and smell are absent.

Which is perhaps just as well. We’ve visited Lakka a number of times before but never in August. No doubt that’s why we had so far escaped the olfactory evidence of an overloaded sanitation system which greeted us when we swung into the bay. To the air of friendliness had been added a less welcome aroma.

Of course, we could have turned around and left. But, no, the journalist in me wanted to get to the bottom of the story. I was hot on the scent, so to speak. I asked around in a discreet sort of way but, frankly, the town was pretty mum on the subject. But I eventually cornered a local worthy who beckoned me into a quiet corner.

‘It is August,’ he confessed apologetically, spreading his hands in gesture of hopelessness. ‘There is no storage for so much, er … you know.’ His eyes implored me not to insist he complete the sentence. ‘So we must …’ His hand flapped in the direction of the bay. ‘Just a little now and then.’

Well, we did stay for a couple of days. And, by and large, enjoyed them. But we resisted the impulse to plunge into that gin clear water, now defiled 'just a little'. And I doubt we’ll ever return to Lakka again – certainly not in August.

It is the size that counts

It seems almost a criminal waste of an opportunity not to fish while sailing. There you are skimming over the water while just beneath you keel is lunch, dinner, and even breakfast if you can stomach fish early in the day – something I’ve never felt strong enough to attempt, if I can be permitted a personal insight.

While under way the fishing almost does itself. All the crew has to do is tow a spinner or other type of lure astern on the end of a length of line and there will come a time when some witless fish decides its natural span is done and ends up in your galley. You don’t even need a rod or reel to achieve this feat. A few fathoms of nylon monofilament – ‘mono’ to the cognoscenti – wound around a simple frame will set you back no more than the price of a portion of chips to go with that aforementioned fish. But fancy gear can certainly help – the rod by acting as shock absorber for when that big-’un strikes – and the second to winch the blighter in towards its rendezvous with the frying pan.

This technique is known as ‘trolling’, pronounced as in ‘lolling’ not as in ‘strolling’ – a gem of information you will no doubt cherish forever. And a prerequisite of trolling is the forward advance of the boat. Stationary trolling can be very frustrating, so those that wish to continue pursuing their piscatorial prey when at anchor must seek other methods.
One such alternative is known as ‘casting’. For this you definitely need a rod, otherwise it would be known as ‘throwing’ which is almost as ineffective as stationary trolling. The object is to cast the bait as far away from the boat as possible, and then pull it back in again in a way you hope will attract peckish fish. Short jerks are said to work and there’s another known as ‘walking the dog’ of which I know absolutely nothing.

Which brings me to my point. The reason I know almost zero about casting is that it’s a dodgy enterprise from the deck of a sailboat. Moreover, memories of my few attempts have left me emotionally scarred, I believe permanently. Flicking a viciously hooked and weighted bait from the end of a 7ft boat rod can be risky at the best of times, but factor in all those ropes and wires that rise from the deck of a typical sailboat and you have raised the potential for disaster at least a hundred-fold – random body piercing being one if its least hilarious outcomes.

It was thus with a little warble of joy that, via the internet, I came across the Emmrod, a rod that claims to have compressed all the capabilities of the conventional type into less than a 2ft package by introducing a stainless steel spring into its diminutive length. At the time of writing, I’ve only used it once, but the results were encouraging. Within half-an-hour a pair of silver bream were sizzling enticingly on the stove and we were selecting a nice crisp wine to go with ‘em.
More on the Emmrod when we’re better acquainted. Till then compare its size with the Alvey reel we use for trolling (pronounced as in lolling, in case it’s already slipped your mind.)

The theatre lives on

No matter how much one likes sailing, there comes the point when the urge to quit the watery bits and step ashore can no longer be supressed.  Which is why Chele and I decided to go to the theatre – not to see a production, you understand, but more to see the theatre itself. More specifically an ‘amphitheatre’.

Now, when it comes to theatre, we owe the Greeks a lot. The word itself comes from ancient Greek – ‘theatron’ meaning a place for seeing things and ‘amphi’ meaning around or on both sides. And they started viewing things from both sides rather a long time ago. Playwrights such as Aristophanes, Sophocles, Euripides and Aeschylus were banging out their offerings some 2000 years before Shakespeare – and they still attract audiences today. Incidentally, the first actor on record was a bloke called Thespis from which the word ‘thespian’ derived. And, since it was considered bad form to have a character die in full view of the audience, all stage killings were performed behind screens called ‘skenes’ which we might now call ‘scenery’.

Anyway, that’s enough brain-ache for now. The problem with the amphitheatres in the Messolonghi area is that they make no allowances for modern tourism in the form of visiting yachts. In other words, you can’t simply step off the boat and stroll along to the theatre as one might to a pub. The nearest theatre was at Oiniades about a half-hour drive inland, off a bus route and unaffordable by taxi – assuming they’re not on strike, that is.

It was while considering this problem that we bumped into (metaphorically – another Greek word) Penelopi Blanga, an official tour guide, who was putting together trips to exactly where we wanted to go. Perfect! She wanted help with some promotional posters and we wanted transport and an informed commentator. A deal was done.

Frankly, I had expected something more tranquil, inert even. Yes, there were the ancient tiers of seats, curved like a bowl around the stage area. And between them the staircases or ‘climax’ (ancient Greek for ‘ladder’ – another metaphor, i.e. mounting to a... well, climax) which allowed the audience to climb up or down its various levels.

But beavering away in the ‘orchestra’ (the open area where the action takes place and, yes, you’ve guessed it, again a Greek word) were stage hands, carpenters, lighting and sound engineers and wardrobe mistresses with their racks of costumes. The place was abuzz with activity.

So, you see, ancient the theatre might be, but dead it certainly isn’t. Over two-and-a-half millennia since those terraces were hewn from solid rock, another performance was taking shape for the delight of the public.

Now, if that isn’t wonderful I don’t know what is.

For those who would like to see for themselves, Penelopi Blanga can be contacted on +30 6932801753 or by email on This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it

Most of us go cruising to soak up local colour and the colour we found ourselves seeking when we arrived in Greece was yellow. For yellow is the colour of most taxis and I had hoped to head this post with a nice bright photo of one to cheer your day.

But there are none. At least not where they are supposed to be. They are all on strike.

The auguries were bad from the moment we left Athens bus station, launched upon the air-conditioned and extremely comfortable three-hour journey to Messolonghi. As we left the city centre,we saw convoys of placard-bearing yellow cabs lining the highways, attracting supporting horn toots from other drivers, including our bus’s pilot who was demonstrably a fellow traveller to their cause.

But surely, I mused, most taxi drivers are self-employed. Against whom are they protesting? I later learned ‘twas the government who had irked them – more specifically a ‘liberalisation’ package imposed by those Eurozone members faced with digging the Greek economy out of the mire. It seems the local cabbies prefer the closed shop where only those within the brethren can ply for hire. The whiff of competition is not to their liking.

A pox be upon them, I thought, when the bus finally deposited us in the outskirts of Messolonghi. Past 10 o’clock at night, nearly two miles from the marina with three large crew bags, a brace of computers in a backpack and various other impedimenta, there couldn’t have been a better time to embrace a taxi driver.
Or throttle one.

Never mind. I'll skip describing the jolly little stroll we had. Even glide over the rapport we built up with a couple of feral dogs that followed us through the streets. We’re back afloat now and the blisters have nearly healed. Shindig will sail again within a day or two and the absence of taxis will be an irrelevance.

Till we want to go home, that is.

Easy does it gets me every time…

Sailing isn’t just about boats – it’s about lifestyle. There are few activities that bring so much relaxation. And even fewer that bring so much stress, certainly discomfort, and sometimes terror. Perhaps that’s why it’s so addictive. But I haven’t made up my mind on that quite yet.

I have to confess that the aspects that appeal to me lie more towards the relaxation end of the spectrum than the other. This is an age thing, Chele tells me. She could be right. In fact I’m sure she is.

The photograph that accompanies this blog typifies those better experiences that would squarely fall into the relaxation category. The place is Formentera, Majorca; the boat is the redoubtable Laurent-Giles designed Fairlight and the era dates from when the two young lads manning the foredeck were barely out of short trousers and had yet to abandon their skateboards. Oh, and the photographer was me. My eyesight was better in those days.
As I write, there are just nine days to go before we join Shindig in Messolonghi, a place where relaxation is the local sport and it’s difficult to be anything but tranquil. It has history, too, seeing amongst other things the death of Lord Byron who died of septicaemia following a bloodletting intended to cure him of a bad cold. Pity, really, because he missed the Battle of Lepanto which he was very much looking forward to.

Messolonghi isn’t big in the beach category, so this isn’t really a place for splashing about or gritty disportment. But it does a nice line in mellowness, with the town offering a lattice of shaded streets and more than an adequacy of useful shops and pleasant tavernas.
But for us this remains tantalisingly in the future. Chele and I are now in the ‘list phase’ that invariably precedes our departures. Indeed, we have so many lists that I’ve thought it necessary to compose a list of lists lest a listable subject be overlooked. My memory was better in those days.

But there won’t be much leisure when we get down there. Not at first. Shindig has been afloat continuously for nearly three years and must be lifted out for antifouling and routine maintenance of her underside. We have yet to decide whether my role will be the stressful one of supervision or that of mindless toil. Personally, I see myself as better cut out for the former but I have observed a certain narrowing of the eyes that suggests that Chele disagrees. I may have to feign a sprained ankle or some such. Or perhaps hire a diver to scrape off the barnacles and postpone the agony for the winter months.

Not a bad idea now I see that last thought in writing. Messolonghi gets awfully hot in mid-summer. No point in working up too much of a sweat.

Water is bad for you!

Yes, I know it's useful for cleaning behind the ears and watering the garden and so on. And it might even float your boat in a very literal sense. But you don’t have to have suffered a tsunami to know that it can be extremely dangerous stuff.

Now, I must confess that churches and I aren’t very regularly acquainted. But I do like the occasional prowl through old churchyards to see how the lives of those that have gone before are at least partially recorded on their tombstones. Indeed, just at the end of our road lies a church where the remains of someone who fought the Boers and also others who served at sea or were masters in stonemasonry. I always leave with regret that I never met them.

What’s this got to do with water, you ask? Ah, I was about to get around to that.

Quite apart from the many delights of sailing around the Cornish coast, the ancient neighbourhood graveyards hold a special fascination for me. Of particular poignance is an inscription in Mylor that refers to a death by drowning. It reads:

"In memory of mr. Joseph Crapp ship wright who died 25th Nover
1770 Aged 43 years.

Alas Frend Joseph
His End was All most Sudden
As thou the mandate came
Express from heaven
his foot it Slip And he did fall
help help he cries & that was all."

Now, Frend Joseph was about as unfortunate in the name department as our Shadow Chancellor, Ed Spherical Objects, but I'm sure Joseph would have preferred to labour on under this burden rather than fall into the water off a boat he was working on.

Yet we can learn something from his tale for it adds weight to my contention that water is dangerous and should be used only in moderation. After all, when did you last hear of a brewer drowning in beer or a distiller in gin? Makes sense when you think about it.

The perils notwithstanding, we’re back in Greece on the 19th of July and will hazard everything just to be afloat again. Some folk never learn. And I'm not talking just about me.

Get To Grips With Scrubbing Grids

Now scrubbing grids are shy and reticent entities. They spend most of their lives under water, only surfacing twice a day at low tide. Sailors will know them as useful places, where their boats can be temporarily dried out for a few hours, perhaps to scrape the bottom of their hulls or slap on a bit of antifouling. They only know the half of it.
If truth be told, any self-respecting scrubbing grid would be scornful of such mundane goings-on. Indeed, many grids would consider it hardly worth bothering to dry out at all simply to have someone toil unseen somewhere under the turn of a bilge. Where’s the fun in that? Surely it’s both an insult and a crime to ignore the challenges and huge potential for amusement that their emergence from the depths affords.
At this point I must admit that I haven’t actually discussed this with my local grid since there isn’t one due to the idiosyncrasies of our tide. But I know what they must be thinking and feel qualified to offer a few pointers on how they should be used.

• Firstly, don’t choose a long-keeled boat. This would be a cowardly dereliction of your responsibility to entertain bystanders and would bring discredit to any reputation you might have for public-spiritedness.

• Instead you should find yourself a fin keeled yacht – the narrower the fin the better. Don’t worry about what lies under the water. Not knowing what might befall you is an important part of the delight.

• Be sure to select a weekend when there are lots of people about, both in passing boats and strolling along the quayside. It’s impracticable to tell them to bring cameras but, happily, these days their mobile phones will suffice.

• As the tide goes down remember to adjust the fore-and-aft position of your boat so only one corner of the keel gets a toehold on the grid. It’s considered poor form to land the boat squarely and downright careless if the keel plunges into one of the gaps.

• Finally, once the water drains away to display your skills, remain with your boat either on deck or ashore. Don’t hide in the nearest pub. Having gone to so much trouble you will want to receive the plaudits of the crowd – particularly from fellow sailors – and will be keen to share your secrets as to how you achieved such a perfect result.

At this point I should like to extend my own congratulations to the skipper for this is a masterly piece of scrubbing gridding. She’s an old friend and shipmate and an exceptionally fine sailor. But, hand on heart, I have to confess – it’s in her ability to set by example that she really, really excels.

Lazy lines – lazier marina

Haven (noun): Inlet where ships can shelter; place of retreat, refuge, protection and peace. So says the dictionary, just in case you thought I made it up. And, to underline its importance to mariners, the word is embedded as a part of many place names: Milford Haven, Keyhaven and Cleanshaven to mention but a few.

Sound good, don’t they? And there are very few sailors that haven’t breathed a sigh of relief as they round a breakwater and head for the visitors’ moorings. This is pretty much the situation that faced us some years ago when we were cruising in the Balearics and got caught out in a northerly that threatened to dislodge us from an anchorage off Formentera. With no let-up in sight we picked up the hook and headed northwards to a marina on Ibiza’s north-east side, experiencing a gratifying sense of relief as we edged in bow first into the berth assigned to us.

Those unacquainted with Mediterranean marinas may not have met the lazy line mooring procedure. It involves approaching the quay at ninety degrees as if intending to T-bone it. Once there, and depending upon which way you came in, you put your stern or bow lines ashore. On the quay you will find a light line which, when retrieved and walked to the seaward end of your boat, you haul in to reveal a much stouter rope or chain. This, you are led to believe, is attached to something submerged but substantial some distance off – blocks of concrete being a good choice.

Lazy lines get mucky. Mussels and goose barnacles fancy them as homes. So it was with muted joy that I ran out of rope and came to the chain. Which was when my joy also ran out. The shackle joining the two together had worn down to a whisker – no more than couple of millimetres of metal remaining at its thinnest point. Scary!

After jury rigging a stronger attachment, I sloped round to the marina office to find their astonishment at the news was only exceeded by their gratitude for my public spiritedness. “No problema, señor,” I was told by the nice lady behind the desk. A marinero would be round within the hour.

We waited the hour and a couple more besides. Then, since it hadn't stopped raining nor the wind eased, we waited through the next day and much of the one beyond that. More visits to the office yielded fulsome reassurances but no sign of any marinero.

It’s all right. I wasn’t bored. I was too busy worrying about the shackle at the other end of the chain.

So the moral is: Thank heaven for havens – but pick ‘em with care. Unfortunately, we won’t be going back to that marina. Nice setting, but not for those who want to sleep soundly at night. No matter how many nice ladies there are to reassure me.

Just paid your insurance? Wonder why the premium's so high? Well, things could be worse.

I've just come across a letter I received some time ago from an insurance broker in Florida. He had heard from a certain Californian city that had posted a sign at the city limits saying ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK because they could no longer afford the liability cover.

He also came up with some other examples:

• Overflowing (one supposes) with testosterone, a 41 year-old bodybuilder entered a race with a refrigerator strapped to his back. Before he reached the finish, the strap came loose and he was hurt. He sued everyone he could think of, including the maker of the strap, and was awarded $1 million by the jury.

• A couple of men from Maryland tried to dry their hot air balloon in a laundry dryer. It exploded, injuring them both. They were awarded $850,000 from the dryer manufacturer.

• An overweight man with heart problems was attempting to start a lawnmover when he suffered another attack. In suing the manufacturer he claimed that too much force was required to pull the starter cord. He was awarded $1.2 million plus another half million for delays.

Then there's my own experience. In my capacity as a multihull designer I once appeared as an expert witness in Los Angeles. A couple, allegedly locked in the throes of passion, were floating down the Colorado river on a catamaran when the mast touched a 7,600V overhead power cable and the earth moved spectacularly for both of them. The boatbuilder was relieved of a small fortune for not having insulated the mast.

This was the US of course. It would never happen here. Or could it?

'The best thing I know between England and France is the sea!' said the English playwright Douglas Jerrold. That was back in the first half of the 19th Century when memories of Waterloo were still raw and the entente between us and the French was not exactly cordiale. Before he took pen to paper to earn a crust, Jerroll - then aged 10 - joined the Navy as a midshipman, so he had some knowledge of the Channel's defensive worth. Since then, of course, flotillas of ferries, the Chunnel, the likes of Bryan Air and Queasy Jet and only the faintest remaining whiff of border controls has made the barrier insignificant. But at least it provides a deterent against the casual interloper.

Now, I've never been to Mexico. But I've been very close. I took the photo here in early April while visiting the Big Bend area of south-west Texas. Whereas the Mississippi to the east was bursting its banks, west Texas hasn't seen rain since September. That's why the mighty Rio Grande isn't quite as mighty as it might have been. Hardly ankle deep, in fact. Oh, and that's Mexico on the other side. For this is its frontier with the United States.

Nice isn't it? Well, no, for this is also the front line against illegal immigrants and the drug runners whose bloodthirsty cartels have been responsible for countless deaths over the past few years. It used to be the case where it was common to pop over the border for a hot tamale and a couple of tequilla slammers, but no longer. It's just too dangerous, I was told. Just not worth the risk.

So, Mexico remains unvisited by me, though Chele has been there several times before. But the emminently wadeable Rio Grande did put me in mind of Douglas Jerrold. And when I quoted his words to locals I met later, they looked almost envious. Bearing in mind the murderous shenanigans at their back door, I can certainly see why.