Will we ever get out of the Med? (Hint: yes.)

---

Our calm afternoon motoring along the north coast of Mallorca went south almost as soon as the sun set. Winds that were supposed to be south southwest were pretty much just west, so again, wind and waves worked against us the whole night to Ibiza. We anchored the next morning on the northeast coast after 20 hours of sailing and motor sailing and spent the rest of the day catching up on sleep.

It was Peter’s 66^th birthday that day, so he’d chosen our anchorage based on a nearby restaurant he liked the sound of. We dinghied into the beach and tied up to a huge, flat rock covered in sunbathers, then walked up to the main road and along to the restaurant. It was an unassuming place on the water and known for having the best paella on the island – one reviewer from Barcelona went so far as to claim it was the best in Spain. So ordering was easy, dinner was good, and it was lovely to sit out under the trees watching the sunset color the rocks on the shore below.

We knew that the next day would be the only opportunity for days to make progress west, but when Peter finished cleaning out the water-diesel mixer fuel thingie in the port engine and turned it on, the Beep From Hell started and wouldn’t stop. After hours of consulting our various fixit brain trusts, and both the Yanmar and Leopard 44 facebook groups, he finally got the help he needed. A couple of women somewhere out there were in the process of diagnosing the same problem on their Leopard and told him it was a missing water sensor probe in the steering fluid holder. Or something like that. Whatever it was as soon as he removed the rest of the probe the beep stopped, and we were finally on our way.

With strong winds from the south, we put up the sails and simply flew along the north coast. It was exhilarating and helped me remember that I really do enjoy parts of this adventure. We reefed when the winds passed 23 knots, then as it climbed to the high 20s, we reefed again and THEN hit our peak speed to date: 10.2 knots. We made for a little inlet just west of San Antonio that would, we hoped, provide a little protection from the westerlies due to kick up the next day.

Turned out it was vaguely protected from the winds, but not the swell. We rocked and rolled around for three days, unable to get off the boat. Peter dove on our anchor the first morning, but it was so rough he had trouble getting back up the swim ladder. It also made us queasy, a problem we’ve had to deal with much more this year than last year, and that made us verrrryyy lethargic. (When you’re struggling not to vomit, the idea of doing ANYthing other than lying very, very still becomes, erm, nauseating.)

Then we realized our batteries weren’t charging. This time it was the red error light from hell – right after I made yogurt in the new bread machine for the first time. At first, we thought we were going to have to sail around to the other side of the island to find out how and how much it will cost to fix it, but then Peter realized that if we just don’t use electricity when the sun’s not out, we’re basically ok to keep going until we got somewhere with a good marine electrician. Meanwhile it felt like we could not go a single day without something breaking, failing, or otherwise fucking up. That was starting to get verrrry old.

After three days of trying not to vomit we finally got a window for going across the Alboran Sea to the peninsula, and with great relief we left Ibiza in our rear-view mirror.

As Ibiza shrank to a line on the horizon it occurred to us that we were leaving our last Mediterranean island. We will sail the Fish to plenty more islands elsewhere, but none of them will have the combination of attributes that make the islands in the Med, well, the Med. Ridiculous numbers of boats and crowds. Lots of terrible boat drivers. History on every corner. Food to die for. Delightful people. Turquoise and the truest Aegean blue water you can imagine. Not ultramarine. Not a hint of green, especially in the deep. Just pure blue, the bluest blue, fathomless. We weren’t done with the Med quite yet, but it sparked our sentimentality. Ok, my sentimentality. Peter just wants to keep going around the world.

Our first night on the peninsula was a fake out. We arrived very close to sunset at a mooring ball field in a little cove, well protected and practically empty. On top of all this perfection, you could pick up a ball for FREE. So of course, we thought that was how it would be everywhere. Ha.

We made Alicante the following late afternoon and, not wanting to spend €200 a night for a berth in a marina, anchored outside of a huge boatyard in an industrial area well west of the main urban area. Alicante is famous for its castle perched on a mountaintop at the edge of the sea, and after tying up the dinghy in a very sketchy spot, we walked the two miles into the old city to the elevator up to the castle. Gorgeous views, and sunset to boot.

From there we walked through the old city until we found a restaurant with outdoor tables that looked good and sat in the cool evening air and ate platters of jamon serrano, local cheeses, olives, and Spanish tortilla, and slurped up a couple of local beers. It was the National Day of Spain, so there were tons of people out and about and a religious procession through the street just below us. We caught a cab back to the dinghy and fell into bed, knowing we had another early day the next morning.

Our passage to Cartagena was one of those that creeps up on you. Like a sneaky snake, a devious evil monster. It was windy, but as predicted it seemed to be a manageable wind with manageable swell. Then as we cut across the hypotenuse to the cape east of Cartagena, it became a huge wind with huge swell and turned into a total bash. Following waves broke over the transom and into the cockpit. Sustained winds in the high 20s and into the 30s – way more than we wanted – or expected. We were reefed down and holding a tight line, and we were getting battered. But screaming along – new record for the Fish of 11.1 knots. When we finally rounded the cape and got the wind a little behind us and the swell down, we breathed a huge sigh of relief – it was still nasty out, spitting rain and cold, but we weren’t cracking the enamel on our teeth with every slam.

You can’t anchor in Cartagena’s very busy harbor, and we’d had just about enough of shitty anchorages and rolling nights trying to keep our dinners down. Fortunately, one of the two marinas in Cartagena had room for us, but not until the next day. So, we went to a very small anchorage at the mouth of a little river just west of the harbor and after negotiating two other boats, strong current, strong winds, and iffy bottom we managed to hook and hold. I was pretty well done.

It was with enormous relief – nay, delirious happiness – that we moved into the marina the following morning and, with a look at both the low cost of the berth and the ridiculously bad forecast for the week, decided we would wait it out at least five nights in the comfort of the marina. We were tied alongside a finger pontoon, we had shore electricity and water, and we had Cartagena – a true jewel of the peninsula – at our doorstep.

Our first order of business was to find ceramic fuses so that Peter could finally fix our battery charger. We hadn’t been able to store any electricity since Ibiza and were operating solely on what we had available at any given time from the solar. Like, when the sun is out. And despite sailing along the Costa del Sol in southern Spain, that had not been as often as we’d thought it would be. But nothing like an important mission as an excuse to explore a city. The one chandlery we could find was a bust, so we walked to all the ferret stores (hardware stores are “ferreterias”) and electric supply stores in the area. Once my back got on board again (the bashing really takes a toll), we got out our bikes and started riding – we could really cover a lot of ground on those, but we had no luck finding the fuses. Peter finally ordered them on amazon.es, and though they took longer to arrive than we’d hoped, once in his hot little hands he made good use of them.

In the meantime, I had a mission as well. Monique, one of our crew for the Atlantic crossing, innocently asked whether we were planning to participate in the ARC’s themed costume party in Las Palmas. Wha? Costumes? Moi? Oh well, if you insist. We went round and round with Peter and Axel, our other crew for the ARC, and finally agreed our theme would be flying fish. Original, eh? But most important, doable. I mean, I have a glue gun, right? I canvassed all the china stores within a mile or two radius of the boat and, because Halloween was around the corner, there were all sorts of things that could contribute to the overall effect. I collected lots of silver glitter foam sheets and foam board, silver capes, devil’s pitchforks, and silver spray paint. Since the party is in November, I won’t spoil the surprise here but stay tuned. We’re going to be a great school of flying fish.

As we pursued our formal missions, we found ourselves falling in love with Cartagena. There’s soooo much to love. The broad, tree lined avenues, marble paved streets through the old town, the stunning architecture and fabulous museums, Licor 43, great restaurants, and the very best cioccolato negro gelato I’ve had in anywhere in the Med (Gelateria Tramonti). Walking back from one of our explorations one morning I realized what it was about this particular urban center that appealed to me more than the many others we’ve wandered through over the past couple of years. Outside of the old town, almost none of the buildings are taller than about 5 or 6 stories, and many are less. The sun can shine on the streets between the buildings. The trees can grow tall and healthy. There’s light where there is shadow in most cities. It’s absolutely lovely.

Did I mention that our freshwater pump died? You were wondering when the next thing would break, right? Just the little device that gets the water we drink, use to brush teeth, bathe, and do dishes from the tanks to our faucets. Peter diagnosed a bad “switch,” but the chandler didn’t have any replacements, and the weather was almost decent enough to leave. Fortunately, he found a spare pump in the nether reaches of the tool shed in the boat and took the switch off that. Need to remember to order another spare before we leave Las Palmas.

The morning of our sixth day in the marina dawned and we went through all the motions to leave. I took the adaptor for the electrical box back to the marina office to get our deposit and check out, and as I sat chatting with the marinero there I asked offhandedly whether there was a discount for staying multiple nights. He assured me that since we didn’t stay seven days, we weren’t eligible for a discount. And the discount for seven days…? Would be significant enough that if we stayed another night, our total bill would be less than what we would be paying if we left on the sixth day. No brainer.

In the meantime, Nelson, our crew from Gibraltar to Gran Canaria, found that flying from Mallorca to Gibraltar was prohibitive, but flying to Málaga was ridiculously cheap. So, we planned to meet him in Málaga a couple of days later, then sail together to Gibraltar, where it looked like we would have to wait out yet another stretch of horrible weather before leaving for the Canaries.

It turns out that Málaga isn’t a super popular place with cruising boats – pretty industrial, and very expensive marinas – so we spent the extra hour or so going to Fuengirola, just south of the airport, where we found a small marina with room for us. (But just barely – they let us spend a couple of nights on the Guest Pontoon, which is where boats tie up temporarily while they check in to the marina.) Nelson could easily get a cab from the airport and find us there the next evening. We made Gibraltar the day after that and anchored off the Spanish coast, close to the border. After walking across the border (and runway of the Gib airport), we spent our first full day there doing a tour of the Rock, including St. Michael’s cave, the old WWII tunnels, and the Moorish castle. The views were great, the monkeys entertaining, and the history fascinating. Good day.

The next day we’d planned to do a big provisioning run to the mind-bogglingly wonderful supermarket just over the border into Gib, and then have Nelson dinghy to the beach below the market and pick us up so we wouldn’t have to check back in to Spain. We got as far as filling the cart, but unfortunately the weather decided to kick up in the meantime, and Nelson couldn’t safely do the trip alone in the high winds and waves. So, Peter and I bought what we could carry and legally bring back into Spain, and after a quick trip to a Spanish supermarket for the rest we packed up and motored over to a more sheltered anchorage on the other side of the bay.

But we still needed to check out of Spain. Since our digital nomad visas from Greece expired in early September, we were running out of Schengen days AND needed to reserve enough to keep us legal in the Canaries for a few weeks before leaving for St. Lucia. So, after spending the morning on boat projects (the boys) and making red chile and ginger syrup (me) we went back across the bay and tried our plan again. Nelson dropped us at the marina in La Linnea, and this time he was waiting on the beach with the dinghy after we walked to the border, checked out, and did a flash spree in the amazing supermarket. Back to the anchorage on the other side, Thai curry for dinner, a quick call with our Atlantic crossing crew, and then bed. We were leaving for Gran Canaria early the next morning. We finally had a window to leave the Med for good. I was definitely ready to move on, just not at all sure about heading straight out into an ocean.

UP NEXT: November 2024 – Passage to Las Palmas