france – The Pilots of the Caribbean

2020: The Year that Wasn’t

We left Alter in Preveza, Greece in October 2019 with the firm belief that we would return six months later. We travelled to Haiti to replenish our coffers flying on contract for the local airline, Sunrise Airways. We have both come to love Haiti but flying for Sunrise was not the ideal farewell. Cap Haïtien was our only destination. It is only 25 minutes flying time from Port-au-Prince, and our schedule of up to eight sectors a day was unrelenting. We spent most of our time off in our apartment staring at the opposite wall, trying to find the energy or inclination to do anything else. When we did find the energy, we visited old friends and explored some of the sights that we had previously missed, including one of Port-au-Prince’s iconic Gingerbread Houses: a post-colonial mansion that was built at the turn of the last century.

Then Covid-19 happened. SARS and MERS had both come and gone with little damage and, at the time, COVID didn’t appear to be much different.

We returned to the UK in February at the start of the global pandemic and a world that was inexorably changing. We had booked a short skiing holiday in Valtournenche, in the Aosta Valley. We hadn’t skied for two years and were keen to get back on the slopes. But before we left, while we were staying with Nicky’s sister in Wales, the pandemic began to swell. It flooded the province of Lombardy in Italy and seeped from there via the surrounding provinces into the rest of the country. We considered cancelling. But decided to go ahead and boarded the flight to Turin as planned. On arrival, we joined a long queue that snaked towards a cluster of medical staff who checked everyone’s temperatures and collected contact forms. The Italians were riding Europe’s first wave and were paddling furiously, trying to stay ahead of its curling tip and prevent their winter holiday season from drowning. Most skiers had chosen to stay home leaving the towns of Valtournenche and Cervinia bereft, with many restaurants closed and a curfew that brought an eerie calm to the evening streets. Residents were in shock, their hopes fading like mountain mist. Some stopped us in the streets to thank us for coming.

When the ski slopes closed we went snowshoeing.

On Sunday 8 March, the ski lifts operated at reduced capacity, with blocked-off seats and social distancing in the queues. Then, when it was clear that the wave was really a tsunami, the Italians finally did what they had been desperately trying to avoid, they closed the slopes.

EasyJet cancelled our return flight to the UK on the morning of our departure and muttered vague promises of evacuation flights from Milan, the epidemic’s epicentre. We declined and took the last flight out of Turin on Ryanair, who continued to honour their published schedule. At Stanstead we were greeted by empty hand sanitiser dispensers. Nobody seemed vaguely interested that we were coming from the heart of the pandemic. It was a strong indication that Britain had rolled up its trousers to its knees, pulled a knotted handkerchief firmly down over its head and was preparing to paddle into the wave without a lifejacket.

I left for South Africa shortly afterwards to start a two-month contract flying in the DRC and Nicky returned to Wales. In a world where plans were fast becoming meaningless, Nicky intended returning to Greece to go hiking in Corfu before we met up at the boat in May.

But Covid had a schedule that didn’t involve us. Countries began to close their borders and lock down their citizens. I reached Kalemie in the DRC the day before the Congo closed its borders and cancelled all internal flights, leaving me without much flying to do. I settled in for an indefinite stay. Nicky’s planned hike became impossible, so she moved into her sister’s Airbnb to wait out the pandemic.

My two-month contract stretched three and then four. It was eventually four and a half months before a new crew could replace me. With no flights between South Africa and the UK, or anywhere else, getting back to Nicky in the UK was a challenge. Fortunately, my boss agreed to drop me off in Lusaka and the Zambians let me remain in transit – without going through the mandatory 14 days quarantine – while I waited for an Ethiopian Airlines flight to London, via Addis Ababa.

Post-apocalyptic empty walkways at Heathrow.

During the four months, Nicky had decided that we needed a more permanent home, somewhere that we could always go to in times of crisis. The boat was supposed to be our home, but neither of us could get there. She wanted something more tangible. South Africa was too remote and neither of us wanted to return there permanently, so we decided to take advantage of the Brexit withdrawal agreement and move to Europe. But where?

Our first instinct was Spain. We flew to Granada to spend some time there and see if we liked it. We landed in Malaga and joined a crush of people choking the passageway to the arrival hall. Most were wearing masks, but I’ve seen more social distancing at a Rod Stewart concert.

The crush of people that greeted us in Malaga.

Grenada greeted us with temperatures in the forties and mandatory mask-wearing indoors and out. It was a bit like walking about in a large sauna with a shopping bag over your head, so we often escaped to the coast or drove up into the mountains, where it was a few degrees cooler.

We both loved Granada, and very nearly made an offer on an apartment in nearby Salobreña. But after a month it didn’t feel like home. More importantly, it felt like it might never be.

So, after making a list of all the places that we might want to live: France, Italy, Greece and just about anywhere in the world apart from Chad or North Korea, we decided to move to France. It was already August and under Article 34, we had to be resident and make an application to stay before the end of the year. There wasn’t a lot of time to spare.

We rented an apartment in Carcassonne, a city on the Canal du Midi that we had visited a couple of times previously. Properties closer to the coast tend to be more expensive and we didn’t want to be too far from the sea. After Nicky had examined every property for sale in a five-hundred-kilometre radius, we found a village house that, for me, was a coup de foudre. It wasn’t perfect for Nicky, with little outside space. But other than that it was exactly what we were looking for: somewhere small that we could lock up and leave whenever we wanted to without the property beginning to deteriorate the moment that we locked the door.

Perhaps the best part of the deal was that we bought it from an English couple who had renovated another property three doors down and would therefore be our neighbours.

Having Paul and Tan there to show us around and introduce us to our other neighbours made our transplant almost painless. We quickly discovered that we had a lot more in common and have become firm friends.

And then, finally, in July 2021, Covid restrictions began to ease. By then France had vaccinated us and we were able to consider returning to Greece and the boat.

The Storm

The crossing from Porquerolles to Corsica drained both of us, in different ways. So, when the boat was secure in the bay at La Revellata, we had a cup of tea and some marmite on toast, before collapsing into bed for a grateful night’s sleep. The following morning brought a low-pressure system racing towards us from the French mainland. There were few places to hide. We seldom go into marinas, mainly because of the cost, but we put our tails between our legs and sought refuge in Calvi’s harbour. We motored across under a glowering sky. The bay was still calm and another Ovni idled at a mooring ball not far from the beach.

The marina RIB directed us to an exposed looking finger that lay open to the harbour entrance. Our request to move a little deeper into the harbour for protection received an indifferent Corsican shrug in response. I wasn’t sure if they hadn’t understood, or just didn’t give a toss.

We secured the laid lines to the bow cleats and pulled the stern as far from the concrete finger as we dared. We had to position Alter far enough away from anything solid to make sure her stern wouldn’t hit the finger. At the same time, we had to be close enough for the ladder to reach the shore, so we could disembark without getting wet. We doubled up the stern lines and took lines from midships to the finger to make Alter as secure as possible.

With the boat secure, we headed off into town to get some supplies and to search for a part for the gas system, which had developed a leak. On the way back from the shops it began to rain and we quickened our pace. The weather had sneaked up on us while we weren’t looking and had already whipped the bay into a seething maelstrom. The mooring buoy field, where the solitary Ovni had whiled the afternoon, was a line of breakers angrily pounding the shore. The Ovni was gone.

We arrived at the marina in driving rain, trying vainly to keep our shopping dry. When we saw Alter, we started to run. The marina was bedlam. Crews raced about trying to secure their boats. Alter, alone at the end of her finger, was bucking like an unbroken pony. She thrashed at her mooring lines, trying to break free. We watched in horror as a huge swell lifted her bow and smashed her stern against the concrete.

We had to get on board, but it was dangerous. The boarding ladder, precarious in the calm, had been flung from its place on the sugar scoop. A bent rung betrayed where it had come in to contact with something immovable.

We waited for a lull, and I leapt onto the sugar scoop. One of the new mooring lines, with a breaking strain of over five tonnes, hung limp in the water, splayed fibre testimony to the force that had snapped it. There was still a vicious surge in the harbour with the danger of the stern being smashed against the jetty again, so I ran forward to pull us even further away from the concrete while Nicky eased the stern lines. When we had done all we could, we retreated to the cabin to unpack our sodden shopping and change into dry clothes.

Alter in the marina after the storm had passed

When the sea subsided, we emerged to crisp clouds and snow-draped mountains. I tried to get ashore using the damaged ladder as a passerelle. The dock was too far away and the swell still too big to rest one end on the sugar scoop and the other on the dock, so I rigged a line from the arch to support the ladder at its mid-point. Unfortunately, I didn’t get the mid-point quite right, because when I passed the halfway mark, gravity intervened. I had no intention of falling into the frigid water, so I clung desperately to the ladder, which writhed like an angry snake. My groin broke my fall and Nicky carefully retrieved me back to the boat while I tried not to cry. We shortened the stern lines again and I managed to get ashore without any more injury to pride or body.

The following morning a thin wind from the mountains had us dressed for winter. But it had flattened the sea and had enough strength to fill our sails. We still had over four hundred miles to go to Balestrate in Sicily, where we had to catch our flight to the UK. Seventeen days seemed like plenty of time to cover the distance, but we needed a weather window for the long crossing from Sardinia to Sicily, and wanted to get the autohelm fixed before then. So we departed Calvi for Bonifacio, where we hoped to find some of the spares that we needed.

Bonifacio and the entrance to the harbour

Bonifacio perches on what seems to be an unbroken line of sea cliffs on the southern shore of Corsica. From the sea, it’s hard to imagine that it has a harbour. The chart shows an entrance to the east of the red and white lighthouse. But even through binoculars, the cliffs there seemed impenetrable. We dropped our sails and motored cautiously towards the light house. A small boat carrying tourists materialised from the rock and darted into a deep sea cave at the base of the cliff. The channel finally revealed itself, bounded by sheer rock on either side. We followed the narrow channel and turned sharply right turn towards the town. We slipped into an inlet just before the marina where there were mooring balls and hard points ashore to secure the stern. It was a new manoeuvre for us. The inlet was narrow, leaving little room to pick up the mooring ball.

We secured the bow, but before I could get ashore in the dingy with a stern line, the wind blew us off and left Alter in the middle of the channel, parallel to the shore. I kept rowing, but the mooring line wasn’t long enough. I didn’t have another with me, so I tied the dingy’s painter to the end of the mooring line and kept rowing.

I was still a meter away from the shore when I ran out of line and I was forced to jump overboard and become part of the rope by hanging on to the dingy with one hand and reaching for an anchor point ashore with the other. We finally secured the boat, very happy that there’d been no witnesses.

We took the burst hydraulic line to the only chandler in town, who greeted it with blank incomprehension. Our last chance to get the autohelm repaired before the crossing to Sicily was in Olbia in Sardinia so we left Bonifacio the following morning and continued south, threading our way through the Maddalena archipelago, the islands that speckle Sardinia’s north-east coast. Warm azure water lured us to linger, but another low pressure system threatened and we wanted to be sheltered when it struck.

We tied up alongside a stone quay in Olbia’s old harbour with the help of some local fishermen, and I immediately set out to find a chandler. Six kilometres of walking and two chandlers later, the man behind the counter shook his head ruefully at the sight of the hose and sent me to Gottardi, a tyre specialist, two doors down. I was dubious, but desperate and went there with the burst hose and a bag full of pessimism.

The Gottardi man spoke little English. He gravely inspected the perished hose and its fittings. ‘No inox.’

‘Scusi?’ I asked, in my best Italian.

‘This inox. We no have inox.’

By then I’d learned that inox is a French abbreviation for stainless steel and guessed that it was the same in Italian, but I didn’t have a clue what bog standard steel was called. ‘You have steel?’

He shrugged as if I’d just asked a stupid question, ‘Si!’

‘You can make one?’

I followed him down a short ramp to a basement filled with spare parts and heavy machinery. He rummaged through cardboard boxes of fittings, selected two, tested them, cut a piece of hose to length and took the pieces to a large red crimping machine.

Ten minutes I had a newly manufactured hose, almost identical to the sample that I had brought him, and a bill for thirty-five euros.

I presented the hose to Nicky with a flourish, as if it was a trophy. But getting the hose made was the easy part. The hydraulic ram had to be removed from a confined space under the cockpit that was barely big enough for an octopus. Nicky took over when my cramped hands couldn’t hold the spanner any more. Her skinny fingers had more room to manoeuvre. But once the new hose was fitted, the ram had to be replaced again, a process that drew blood and a litany of profanities from both of us. Then the system had to be bled through a bleed screw that refused to budge. With the help of some heat we managed to loosen it, almost losing the tiny ball bearing that jumped out and fled towards the cockpit drain with purpose. And when the system had been bled and refilled with hydraulic oil, it had to be recalibrated. It refused. We followed the instructions precisely, but every time the process was complete, we got an error message. Night fell and we went to bed exhausted and frustrated. I lay awake half the night, going through the steps in my mind, trying to determine what we were doing wrong until eventually I fell into a restless sleep.

The following morning after breakfast we tried the calibration again and it worked first time. We were ready to press on south, but the low pressure system was still lurking, so we postponed our departure for another day and, with Alter safely tied up in Olbia’s secure harbour, we went shopping for a new mirror for the head.

Countdown and Launch

On the afternoon of the 29th April 2019, Alter was finally ready to go back into the water. Diving cylinders had been bought and stowed, the gas barbecue fitted, the life raft secured to its new cradle on the pushpit, and the flag strung from its staff. We’d even had time to celebrate the impending launch with Mark and Margaret, two Kiwi yachties that Nicky had picked up in the laundry in town. We had dealt with myriad things over the previous days and, although we had ticked off everything on our list, doubt still gnawed at us. There was the constant feeling that we’d left something out, something crucial. Alter was ready, but we were not.

For me it was the fear of putting her in the water. She would be the biggest, heaviest boat that Nicky and I had handled on our own. Her manners in the water were unknown. Neither of us had ever maneuvered a yacht with a lifting keel and its idiosyncrasies. There was no bow thruster to get us out of trouble.
But all those thoughts evaporated at 16:30, when the tractor arrived with a cradle to tow Alter from her resting place. Nicky and I watched apprehensively as the trailer slipped into place and the hydraulic rams began to lift Alter. There was a hesitation, a lurch and then a loud bang. Alter slumped like a wounded beast. A deafening hiss sent a spray of hydraulic fluid across the tarmac. One of the hydraulic pipes had burst. Our hearts stopped and we stood rooted, hoping that the lurch had not gone too far and that Alter wouldn’t break out of her cradle and crash onto the boat next to her. The cradle held and we could breathe again.

We finally got he into the slings just after the sun had set.

By the time a new trailer arrived and we’d been lifted safely into the slings, the sun had set. There was still a lot of work to do. For the previous year, Alter had been sitting on her cradle with her centerboard retracted. It was our first opportunity to lower the centerboard, inspect it and give it two coats of anti-foul. We had worked out a schedule to apply the anti-foul during the night, painting on one coat and waiting for it to dry, before getting up again in the middle of the night to paint the second coat. Our delay getting into the slings meant shorter drying times between coats as we were going into the water first thing in the morning.
We took turns painting the centerboard and the patches on the hull where the cradle had obscured the hull. And when the sun rose the following morning, we both trekked to the distant bathrooms, our bicycles safely folded and stored in the equipment room.

At 8 o’clock there was a sudden bustle and it was launch time. A motorboat had pulled into the dock to be lifted and I thought that might delay us. No problem; the crane lifted Alter a little higher and she flew gracefully over the motorboat.

Alter flew gracefully over the motorboat.

They lowered Alter gently into the water and we went below to check all the seacocks and bilges for leaks. I remembered to burp the new stern gland, allowing a small trickle of water into the bellows to lubricate the prop shaft.
There was no time to savour the moment or to draw breath. It was a busy dock and we had to be on our way. The engine started on the first turn and it was soon burbling away happily and pulsing spurts of water from the exhaust. Mark and Margaret helped us cast off from the dock and we steered gingerly to the fuel dock to fill the tanks. There was little wind and our first docking went as smoothly as I could have hoped for. While we waited for the refueler to arrive, we lifted the RIB from its position on the foredeck and lowered it into the water. Despite its diminutive stature, the RIB has a name too. She is called Persephone after the Greek Goddess who ruled the underworld with her husband Hades. Mark helped me fit the outboard motor so that we could take the Persephone for a test drive.
Starting the outboard proved challenging. I don’t remember when last I started one, perhaps never, so I didn’t really know what to expect. Even if I had, I would have been surprised. After checking the fuel was on, the kill switch was in place and the choke was open, I gave the cord a solid pull. It resisted. I pulled again and the motor started, but it ripped the cord from my hands with such force that I thought I’d damaged my wrist.

Trying to get Persephone’s outboard started without breaking a wrist.

If I’d had more experience, I might have known that the outboard motor was telling me something. But it was less than a year old, so I didn’t investigate further and put it’s aggression down to it being new and not yet properly run in. It was a mistake that cost us time and money later. Once it had started, the motor purred innocently, so Mark and I went for a little tour of the marina.
With our tanks full and no more excuse to stay, we said goodbye to Mark and Margaret and motored slowly out of the harbour. I had wanted to spend the first night nearby, tucked up in one of the small bays on Ile Ratonneau, only a few miles from the marina. From there, I hoped that we could visit the infamous Chateau d’If from Dumas’ Count of Monte Christo. But there was a westerly coming and Patrice, Alter’s previous owner, who had called to wish us well, warned us that the rocky bay would dangerous in those conditions.
Time was pressing, so we set course for La Ciotat, thirty miles away. I pushed the throttle forward once we were clear of the harbour entrance and the engine’s contented purr turned into an anguished roar. I throttled back and the noise went away. Nicky and I began to troubleshoot, checked the engine parameters, went below and pulled all the covers off to see if anything was loose. I dismantled the aft cabin so that I could see the propeller shaft, in case it was loose or misaligned. We couldn’t find anything wrong, but whenever we increased power the noise returned.
We turned around and returned to port. On the way back we phoned the engineer who had helped us with the installation of the propeller and also contacted the agent for the Maxprop in Fréjus to try to find out what might be wrong.
There was a bit of a kerfuffle docking as we had not expected to come back and there was no readily available berth for us. After a couple of aborted attempts to come alongside, we finally nudged up against the quay and waited for help to arrive. I imagined that we would have to get back into the slings to examine the propeller, because that seemed to be the only thing that could be causing the noise. But it was a little after 12:00, and that can mean only one thing in France. Everyone was on lunch. Nicky suggested that I jump in to inspect to see if there were any obvious problems while we were waiting.

The sea in Marseille at the end of April isn’t exactly balmy; it’s freezing. I reluctantly pulled on my wetsuit and kitted up for the unwanted dip. I wasn’t wearing a weight belt, so I had to pull myself under using the rudder to keep me down. The buoyant wetsuit pushed me up against the hull and wedged me in place. I examined the propeller, twisted the blades – they moved freely – tugged the propeller from side to side – it didn’t budge – and checked for any play – there wasn’t any. By that time I needed air so I surfaced, took a quick breath, and went down again to repeat the process and got the same result. The propeller and shaft were exactly how I would expect a properly functioning drive train to be.
I clambered back onto the boat, put some warm clothes on and started making calls. After a long discussion with the Maxprop agent and another with the engineer, we decided that the noise must be normal. Neither of us had ever been on an Ovni before and the only other aluminium boat that we had sailed on was so different that a comparison was pointless. None of the GRP boats we’d been on had ever made a noise like that.
We decided that it was probably a combination of the shape of the aluminium hull and the four-blade propeller. There are also two cockpit drains below the sugar scoop, above the propeller, which might have contributed to some kind of resonance. Since then, we have traveled over a thousand miles and the engine and propeller have performed flawlessly. But the noise persists.
We cast off for the second time and set course for La Ciotat. Once we were clear of the harbour, we raised the mainsail and unfurled the genoa. In twelve knots of wind Alter gathered herself and surged across the bay. We turned off the motor and revelled in the silence. We were both wearing silly grins, both utterly happy. After years of searching for our boat, months of working on her under difficult conditions, and then missing our launch date, we were finally on our way and free.

We were just gathering our thoughts, thinking about getting the camera out for a picture of the Chateau d’If as we sailed past, when something large appeared from behind the sail on our port side. The enormous yellow marker buoy had been hidden behind the sail and we had been too busy celebrating to see it.
Nicky and I watched wide-eyed as the buoy disappear behind us. We should have been mortified that on our first day out we had nearly hit an enormous yellow buoy in the middle of the bay. But we both burst out laughing.
The adrenaline was still buzzing in our ears when we dropped anchor off La Ciotat at eight o’clock that evening. We popped the cork on a bottle of Laurent Perrier that we had been saving for the occasion and sipped champagne as we watched the sun dip beyond the horizon.

Anchored off La Ciotat with a bottle of Laurent Perrier to celebrate our first night at sea.

Winter Refit

Buying the boat was a bit like getting married and then being separated before the consummation. We’d spent years searching for her before becoming acquainted, making a commitment and spending a chunk of our savings on her. And the day after we met her for the first time, we abandoned her in Marseilles with a promise to return two months later. There was no honeymoon. There wasn’t even a wedding night.

She is an Ovni 435 and her name is Alter. We’d considered changing her name, but the two options that we wanted, Nomad or Nomade (French) were already taken, so we decided to keep her as Alter. Patrice, the previous owner had chosen the name because of its Latin roots, which mean “the other (of the two).” He meant it to invoke the idea of an alternate or different lifestyle, something that we, and many sailors, also hanker after.

We used the months before our return to make lists of exactly what it was that we wanted in the way of repairs and renovations. Theoretically there wasn’t anything to do. She had recently returned from a twelve-year circumnavigation, Patrice had spent months sprucing her up for the sale, touching up the paint, cleaning, and doing many of the little jobs that are often overlooked at sea.

But there is always something to do on a boat. She was twelve years old and, with age comes wrinkles. All the taps and water fittings had succumbed to verdigris and needed replacing. The anti-fouling had to be redone, anodes needed changing, the countertop around the sink was damaged; we wanted to fit fans, a gas alarm, an isolation transformer, replace the stern gland and we had our eyes set on a feathering propeller, to give us an extra knot underway and help with maneuvering in close quarters. The list grew longer by the hour.

The stove was original, and still worked, but we coveted another. In our endless trolling of sailing magazine articles and drooling over the latest equipment, we’d read countless reviews. Yachting Monthly had done a comparison of some of the popular marine stoves and one stood head-and-shoulders above the rest. They could all boil a kettle, or heat up a pressure cooker, but few had acceptable ovens. All but one were awful at making toast, either burning the edges while leaving the middle unscathed or not managing to burn anything at all. We’d set our sights, and a chunk of our budget, on the GN Espace Levante (a British product, despite the name). In the test it was the only one that produced perfect toast, but also demonstrated its consistent heating by baking a batch of shortbread. It was twice the price of any of the others, but we thought it a price worth paying. It joined the growing list.

When December arrived, instead of packing the skiing gear and heading for St. Anton, we filled our suitcases with working clothes and our sailing gear that had been in storage since the sale of Amajuba, our previous boat, and headed for Marseilles.

We’d chosen an airbnb in the town of L’Estaque for our base. It was only about two kilometers from Port Corbières, where Alter had been waiting patiently for our return.

Before we could start work, we had to go shopping for tools and other essentials for the boat. The list seemed infinite. Although Patrice had left us his full spares inventory, there was still a lot we needed, and wanted to make the boat our own. We began our quest at the massive Leroy Merlin up the road, where we started to amass a collection of tools. We also needed taps, shower fittings, hoses, clamps, stainless steel screw, nuts and bolts, straps, glue, paint brushes, overalls, gloves, masks and a plethora of other items.

Our first task was to complete an inventory of everything on board The lazarette lockers yielded an Aladdin’s cave of treasures. They are so voluminous that it took three months to discover a third gas bottle at the bottom of a locker. And once the inventory was done, we measured everything to make sure that the new taps would fit, the pots and pans we wanted were not too big for the cupboards and other details like the exact size of the work surface to ensure that the chopping board would fit.

Nicky had hunted for bicycles online and found exactly what we needed. We both enjoy mountain biking but there was not enough room for full-size mountain bikes on Alter. Most sailors who have bikes settle for the foldable ones with small wheels. Although they are adequate for getting to the shops, they are not suitable for long rides off-road. So, Nicky found a folding mountain bike, made by Montague, with 26-inch wheels that was designed for paratroopers. We located a dealer in France who had two of the correct size in stock. They were the first of our orders to arrive.

They were relatively expensive, and we were concerned that they might not be all that we hoped for, or that they might not fit in our equipment room, but they turned out to be perfect. They gave us mobility around the boatyard, particularly for trips to the nearest loo, which was about a kilometer away.

We tackled one of the most challenging tasks first. The soundproofing in the engine compartment was looking tatty. Its black covering was peeling off making a mess of the engine. We had ordered a lead-lined commercially spec’d material to replace it. When soundproofing is fitted to a boat, it is done before the engine is installed and there is consequently room to do the job. Removing the engine was not an option, so we were left with a crowded space that had very little clearance between the engine and the sides. Behind the engine, access was through a small hatch in the aft cabins. It was a job for a non-claustrophobic contortionist.

We pulled out all the old soundproofing and then set about ticking off all the other tasks while we waited for the new material to arrive. I had decided, perhaps a little optimistically, that we would be able to do all the work ourselves, but as some of the more challenging jobs approached, I began to have my doubts.

The first task that exceeded our confidence was the isolation transformer. For a start, it was twice as big and four times heavier than I imagined. I designed and made the mount, which is probably so over-engineered that it will be there long after the boat has ceased to exist. But when it came to the wiring, I chickened out. I realised that the consequences of making a mistake could be catastrophic.

The washing machine proved tricky too. I imagined botching the mounts only to have the entire thing ripping itself off the bulkhead in a heavy sea. I put my tail firmly between my legs again and we arranged to have it done by the local boatyard. It didn’t go as smoothly as we hoped.

Our new skew washing machine waiting for its new façade.

The mounting was very strong, but the machine was not straight. Nicky has an eye for detail, but even my forgiving eye could see the slant. And then when the cupboard door went back on, the opening was too small to open the washing machine door. Unfortunately, we were not there when they rectified that problem. Let’s just say that when Nicky and I saw their solution for the first time, we were horrified.

So, the cupboard had to be removed and we found a carpenter to fit a new façade.

While this was going on, it was winter in Marseilles. Most of the boatyard was closed and we lived our little world, layered against the biting wind. Our hands split from the cold and stung from the turpentine and spirits that found its way into the cracks. Our backs ached from wedging ourselves into lockers to fit anti-slip mats, from lying flat on the cabin sole to clean out the water tanks and from wedging ourselves upside down into cupboards to fit conduits or to reach water fittings.

Fitting the new taps and the water filter.

We worked ten hours a day every day, returning to our little apartment shattered and fulfilled. Each day meant a little more done and a little less to do. By the end of January, the bulk of the work had been done, but the list still stretched to the horizon.

We went back on contract for two months to help pay the bills, and returned to the boat at the beginning of April. We intended to launch in the middle of the month. The stove and propeller had yet to be delivered and there was a mountain of work still to do. Nothing went smoothly. The propeller was not going to arrive before our launch, so we drove to Fréjus to collect it. DHL managed to get the stove as far as their depot near the airport, but all their promises to deliver to the boatyard were false and we had to collect that too. And a week before we were due to launch, we found that the radar wasn’t working.

Our online shopping was waiting for us when we returned to France.

It transpired that it had been hit by lightning at some stage and the PC board had to be replaced. All of this was made more complicated by the fact that Nicky’s and my French, is normally limited to ordering meals and exchanging pleasantries. Our learning curve soared when we began discussing the intricacies of radar, installations of AC systems and debating the problems of running a business under the weight of the French tax system with people whose English was no better than our French.

The launch date slipped while we waited for parts for the radar and sought help to get the propeller installed. Our efforts had been thwarted when the old one refused to budge. (We subsequently added our own blowtorch to remove reticent screws.)

On the day before the original launch date, we went shopping, because the rental car was due back. As with many other things, it was a last-minute adventure. We were still filling our trollies when the store security began herding us to the exit. Nicky piloted two overladen trollies while I ran back and forth, scooping stuff off the shelves, avoiding the security guards, trying to get the last few things on the list.

The following morning we returned the rental car and moved out of our apartment and into the boat. It was almost a relief because it meant that there would be no more quick trips to Leroy Merlin or lightning expeditions to Ikea.

Living in a boat on the hard stand is a little like living in the second story of a caravan. We couldn’t use the water system, nowhere for it to drain to, or the toilet. Dish washing was done under a nearby tap and the toilet and showers were still a bike ride away, making it just a little inconvenient when the call came in the middle of the night: head torch, ladder, unlock the bike, pedal, loo, pedal, lock, ladder and back to bed.

Getting to work was easier though. After we had cleaned the hull with a borrowed pressure washer, Nicky got the short straw and started painting the first of four coats of black anti-foul while I changed all the anodes and epoxied the rudder.

We set a new launch date for the 30^th April and, despite it being two weeks later than planned, the deadline came at us like a runaway freight train. The isolation transformer was hooked up, the propeller and stern gland fitted and the radar repaired all within days of launch.

The new four-blade Maxprop feathering propeller.

And then, with one day to go, everything was done. We arranged to have the boat lifted into the slings the following night so that we could paint the last patches of anti foul where the pads that had held the boat in place had covered the hull.

We spent the time in a bit of a daze, tidying, securing, and not daring to believe that we would soon be in the water and on our way. But we were two weeks behind schedule and that meant that our leisurely cruise down the coast towards Antibes was merely a dream. We had to cross to Corsica as soon as possible in order to get to Marina Balistrate in Sicily. Our flight to Wales for our nephew’s christening was only three weeks away.

The Boat

When we met Coyote we were living in Johannesburg, flying 737s for Comair, a South African domestic airline. We had fallen into it, the way one falls into things, bought a home, added two dogs, grown roots. We acquired stuff, decorated, renovated, re-decorated and perfected until the house was exactly what we wanted.

Work had its privileges, like rebate tickets on British Airways, and early morning descents into Cape Town with clouds spilling off Table Mountain and tendrils of fog tracing the streams that wet the Winelands.

But life wasn’t without drudgery: the commute, the traffic, the taxis. And limited destinations became increasingly familiar as the years slipped by. The exhilaration of flight was slowly replaced by the creeping fatigue of a relentless schedule. And living in Johannesburg meant accepting the persistent possibility of violence.

Coyote was French and working as a diving instructor at Ponta do Ouro in Mozambique, where Nicky did her Advanced Diver course. He had spent the previous twenty years roaming the earth, staying only as long as his visa was valid. He’d crewed on crabbers in Alaska, shucked oysters in Canada, guided kayaks in the Gulf of California and taught scuba diving in more places than he could remember. His dream was to buy a catamaran, crew it with his wife, and charter it on diving trips in the Coral Triangle, where the warm Pacific waters flow between the Philippines and Indonesia, feeding a bountiful marine biome.

Meeting Coyote was a defining moment, the start of a slow realisation that there was another way, a better way. We began to dream of selling up and sailing the world. But it was too soon: we still had two beautiful dogs. We could not contemplate parting with them while they were still alive.

There were worries too. I get seasick. Very seasick. So, before we sunk our savings into a boat, I signed up for a deckhand course to see if I could be a sailor. The week went well; we bought a small yacht. I returned to complete my Day Skipper license. And then the learning process really began. It was a bit like buying a pair of climbing boots and then tackling Everest. After our third outing, we suspected that the Port Elizabeth NSRI were placed on standby whenever we arrived at the yacht club. (We never called on them, but there were a few occasions…)

When Bella, our Great Dane, died, we knew that our time was approaching. Max was still healthy, but he was thirteen and showing his age. Then he was gone, and we were left bereft. And free.

Within a few months we’d sold our house and the boat, resigned from the airline and accepted a flying job in Haiti. The new job meant four months off a year, and the opportunity to travel. But we hadn’t lost sight of our goal.

We debated a wish-list for our next boat and spent countless hours surfing “boat porn.” There was no perfect boat. A boat that is good for the tropics can be dangerous at high latitudes; a boat that goes fast is often uncomfortable and a challenge to sail; a boat that has room for all the toys can be a handful for two people – and stretch the budget to breaking point. Every boat is a compromise.

In December 2017 we sailed to Antarctica aboard the expedition yacht Pelagic Australis. She spoiled us with her size, her comfort, her capability and above all her cosy pilothouse where we could shelter from the worst that the weather could throw at us. We dreamed of a pilothouse.

By the middle of last year, we had looked at almost every yacht that was on the market, and still not found what we were looking for. Well, we had found two. But no matter how much we wanted a Good Hope 56 or a Boréal 44, neither was in the budget.

Both of the boats are made of aluminium, which is strong and doesn’t corrode – much. The more time we spent poring over the details of boats on the Internet, the more we found ourselves going back to one particular design.

The French boatyard Alubat has been making aluminium boats for some time and the most popular of their brands is the Ovni. It has a lifting centreboard, which allows it to navigate waters less than a metre deep, and a reputation for being the Land Rover of the sea. (Meaning that it can go almost anywhere – not that it breaks down all the time.)

I had placed email alerts on a number of brokerage sites that warned me when an Ovni became available. There were some false alarms. A boat in Florida that looked promising turned out to be a fix-it-up. We made an offer for another in Poland, but the owner turned us down. Then, one Sunday morning I checked my mail while the coffee was brewing. There was an Ovni 435 for sale in Marseille. I clicked the link. I rushed through to the bedroom where Nicky was waiting for her coffee, ‘I think I’ve found our boat.’

She sat up and reached for my iPad. As she flicked through the pictures, the growing smile on her face told me that she agreed. It ticked almost all the boxes: a large forward sail locker, an equipment room, a stand-up shower. And it had just returned from a ten-year circumnavigation and was fully equipped to keep going. It had a water maker, diesel heater, solar panels, wind generator…

‘Call him.’

‘What?’

‘Call him!’

I looked at Nicky uncomfortably. We were in the Congo, the seller was in France. He spoke French, might not speak English. My French was appalling.I didn’t want to cold-call some stranger in France. I wanted to compose a carefully thought out email, translate it, send it off, wait.

The phone rang only twice, ‘Oui?’

‘Bonjour. Je m’appelle Brady. Je vous téléphoner à cause de votre bateau.’

‘Do you speak English?’ the man asked.

‘Yes. Do you?’

‘A little. But I think it is better than your French.’

‘Is the Ovni still available?’

‘Yes. I advertised it only yesterday.’ He seemed bemused.

I nodded to Nicky and she began frantically signalling me and mouthing that I should make an offer, while I tried to concentrate on what the man was saying.

We made an offer subject to a survey.

We arranged and paid for a survey.

But we were in Goma, in the Democratic Republic of Congo, and couldn’t be in France until the following week. We spent the time putting the money together, organising the unexpected visit to Marseille, liaising with the surveyor, and reassuring the seller that we were serious and that he shouldn’t sell the boat to anyone else until we got there.

And when we arrived in Marseille ten days later, we found that the yacht was everything we’d hoped for. Patrice, the seller, had bought it new in 2006, looked after it with care. We shook hands on the sale and Patrice spent the rest of the day guiding us through our new home, demonstrating all the systems. It was a reluctant parting for him, but we reassured him that his Alter would be loved and cared for.

We returned to our nearby Airbnb that evening a little dazed. We were boat owners again. We already had commitments for the next few months. There wasn’t time to put the boat in the water before the end of summer. So, the following day we left Alter in France and continued on to the UK and our planned holiday.

Our lives continued as normal but had inextricably changed. We started making wish-lists, planning renovations, surfing the internet for all the things that we wanted to have aboard when we set off on our journey.

We planned to return to the boat in December. But she would only return to the water the following April. It seemed like a lifetime away.