mediterranean – The Pilots of the Caribbean

The Crossing

We woke to an unfamiliar motion. It was a calm morning off La Ciotat, with barely a ripple in the bay, but enough of a swell to remind us that we were no longer landlubbers.

After breakfast, we weighed anchor and set sail for Porquerolles, 30 miles away. The fresh southerly breeze and calm seas allowed us an easy run, with no warning of what was to come. We crossed the traffic separation scheme outside Toulon with a tinge of anxiety, but it was unfounded and the only ships we saw were safely tied up in the port.

A little after three that afternoon, we dropped anchor off Porquerolles. Once the boat was secure, we began planning our twenty-hour crossing to Calvi in Corsica for the following afternoon.

We had never sailed out of sight of land before without a seasoned skipper on board. We had crossed the Drake Passage between Cape Horn and Antarctica the previous year, but I had spent most of the time curled in the foetal position feeling sorry for myself.

My seasickness hadn’t presented itself since leaving Marseille, but conditions had been near perfect, and I had very little confidence that the deferral would continue.

The navigation was simple. After rounding Porquerolles, we would head almost due east with nothing but sea between us and Corsica. But the weather gave us pause. The forecast was for winds of about 25 knots from the south during the night, which would be perfect for the crossing. Knowing that wind strengths are often underestimated, we added 10% to the forecast, for an expected wind speed of about 30 knots. Waves of not more than two meters were expected.

In order to arrive during daylight, we decided to leave at 15:30, which would allow plenty of time to prepare for our first night passage, and also to arrive at our destination in the middle of the following day, giving us plenty of leeway for the unforeseen.

My seasickness hadn’t presented itself since leaving Marseille, but conditions had been near perfect, and I had very little confidence that the deferral would continue. I went to bed with anxiety gnawing at my stomach like a rat.

The following morning we launched Persephone for a trip into town and were reacquainted with our irascible outboard. It would not idle. I adjusted the idle screw until the engine ran without cutting out, but it was idling so fast that I dared not put it in gear.

So, I adjusted it back to a slower setting and had to keep blipping the throttle to stop the engine from dying. It worked in theory. But when we neared the beach, we came very close to being the afternoon’s entertainment. When we slowed to line up with the beach, the motor died and left us drifting. The pull cord resisted heroically and tried to rip my hand from my arm every time the motor caught. And then, when it was running, if I dared slow down, the motor died again.

Fortunately, the beach was sandy at the water’s edge and we could safely approach with a little bit of speed so that I could kill the motor and lift it before we hit the sand.

Porquerolles is a holiday town, but summer was still a month away and the crowd was thin. We wandered around a little and stopped for an ice cream before returning to Alter to prepare for the crossing.

As our departure time neared, I considered the 120 miles between us and Calvi with trepidation. It seemed like an ocean. We’d spent a lot of time going over the weather forecasts, checking the GRIBs for the route and taking every precaution to ensure that we were doing the right thing. We were sheltered from the fresh southerly breeze on the north of the island as we motored out of the bay. Rounding the north side of the island, the breeze began to build. By the time we were clear of the land it had freshened to 20 knots. We tucked a reef into the main and rolled out most of the genoa.

But the wind hadn’t read the forecast and, before the hour was up, we cinched a second reef and rolled the genoa in to the next mark. The sun fell and the darkness swept down on us with more wind and waves.

I was still feeling fine, so I went forward to put the third, and final, reef in for the night. It was apparent that the forecast had underestimated the wind’s resolve. Even the extra 10% that we’d added as a precaution didn’t come close to the gale that began howling and threatened to tear the wind generator from its mountings.

We needed to stop it, but it wasn’t easy. There was a little rope that we had to pull to bring the blades in line with the wind to stop them. But the wind was in front of us and the spinning blades were between us and the rope. It was necessary to climb the pushpit, reach over the solar panels and slip my arm between the solar panel and the spinning blade, through a gap that was barely bigger than the diameter of my arm. The boat was heaving over the swell, which added an unwanted complication. I slid my hand underneath with trepidation and, just when I thought that the string was in reach, I lifted my arm a little too much and a blade hit my watch with a loud crack. I reflexively snatched my arm back and eyed the howling disk warily for a second attempt.

Nicky persuaded me that her arm was thinner than mine and that it would be easier for her. She climbed the pushpit while I held on to her to stop her from going overboard. Her grip was surer than mine and she soon grabbed the rope and swivelled the blades out of the wind, putting an end to the dreadful vibration.

One problem had been solved, but the wind continued to grow and the night ahead seemed to stretch on to infinity.

We prepared ourselves for the worst, with our lifejackets and harnesses on, tucked into our foulies, and the first watch keeper – me – equipped with both the integral AIS and also a small EPIRB.

Nicky made me a flask of tea and then went below at 20:00. While she tried to get some sleep the wind finally settled at a sustained 40 knots. A swell of over four meters pushed us on the starboard quarter, and set up an uncomfortable corkscrew motion. Despite the cocktail of drugs that I had swallowed, my condition began to circle the drain.

My seasickness takes on a peculiar form. I wish it was the more traditional nausea that can be relieved a little by expelling some of the misery in a good vomit. But mine is more like an onset of epilepsy combined with a touch of psychosis.

It begins fairly traditionally with a cold sweat, little gasps for more air and an unsettled feeling in my stomach. But it progresses to vision disturbance, the inability to tolerate anything in my line of sight and muscular tics.

By the time Nicky emerged for her watch at 23:00, I was in full Cuckoo’s Nest, flapping about like a landed fish. Nicky helped me below and had to take my foulies off for me because I had no control over my arms. She got me into the aft cabin, where we had prepared a bunk, and tucked me in. I had enough sense in me to feel despair because I knew that I had become almost useless and that Nicky was going to have to make the rest of the crossing on her own.

Fortunately, Nicky is at her best in adversity and she rose to the challenge. When my shaking eventually stopped, I lapsed into a blissful oblivion. Through my addled sleep I heard the winch grinding now and then as Nicky adjusted the genoa, reeling it in to a rag when the wind threatened to overpower her, then letting it out a little when it eased.

Nicky’s voice penetrated my restless sleep. It was time for my watch but, although I had largely recovered, I knew that if I moved from the horizontal, I wouldn’t last five minutes. I would be able to help her in extremis, but doing a solo watch was out of the question.

‘There’s a ship heading straight for us!’ she yelled over the wind.

‘It should move out of the way when it sees us on AIS.’

‘It’s getting pretty close.’

There wasn’t much scope for turning in the conditions, but right of way means little when a sailing boat and a container vessel collide. ‘If he’s not turning, we’ll have to.’

And the only thing I remember until much later was Nicky’s greeting to the ship as it slid past in the darkness, having kept doggedly to its course. ‘VAFFANCULO, YOU FUCKING ARSEHOLE.’ I didn’t know that she could speak Italian.

Nicky sailed on into the night alone while I lay below with my nightmares. But hers were real. Around three in the morning, the boat drifted off its course. Since we’d left Marseille the autohelm had performed flawlessly, giving us the confidence to shelter under the spray dodger in the worst weather and allow the autohelm to keep a constant angle to the wind.

But when it drifted off, Nicky couldn’t do anything to persuade it to return to our course, or even to hold it. She tried heading-hold in case the wind computer had failed, but that wouldn’t work either. It meant that she could no longer shelter from the weather and was forced to spend the rest of the night at the wheel.

She called me when land was in sight the wind had died a little. The sea was still up but the motion was easier. I managed to rouse and dress myself and join her on deck in time to see the mountains of Corsica emerge from the gloom.

I took the wheel and suggested that Nicky go below, but there was still too much adrenaline flowing through her and, although she was exhausted, she wanted to be there to the end. I tried the autohelm again when it was light in the hope that we could identify the problem but, although all the indications were normal, it wouldn’t respond.

Nicky, a little weather-beaten but happy after we dropped anchor at Revellata.

It was midday before we nudged into the Golfe de Revellata, a small bay to the west of Calvi, across the water from the citadel. It was sheltered and calm, a strange contrast to the tempestuous night. We stowed the mainsail, reefed the genoa and motored to a quiet corner of the bay, where we dropped anchor.

While Nicky had a well-deserved shower I made her marmite on toast for breakfast. I put her to bed and told her what an amazing job she had done. Then I put the sail covers on and secured the boat, while feeling abashed at my impotence.

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.