3. Meeting Captain Pete
After the 2-hour flight to Palma de Mallorca airport and a quick check of my passport on arrival. By the authorities I found my way down to the dock arriving by bus where I was to meet the skipper in the late afternoon. The Spanish Autumn air was warm and welcoming along with a yellow sanded ‘playa’ (beach), full of bronzed bodies lazing happily on the sand.
I called Captain Pete on his cellphone and shortly thereafter had seen a rubber inflatable boat bouncing along the small waves toward me.
Pete was a large man with an odd accent, somewhat European but with some Australian or New Zealand influence. After a quick hand-shake, I handed my luggage to him and I carefully stepped in the small boat. We headed to the ‘Eole Angel’ rocking gently in the Mallorca bay. Once onboard I was shown my cabin and around the gorgeous yacht. With a cabin in the fore and 2 cabins in the aft, there was enough space to sleep 8 crew if the galley table was lowered and converted to another double bed.
After some chatting, I learned that Captain Pete was a retired military sniper for the French Foreign legion. He spent time in Rwanda after the genocide of the Tutsi and Hutu people in a “clean-up operation” and went on to tell me some other disturbing memories of military battle engagements.
Alarm bells may have been ringing in my mind that Pete may not have been the most ‘sound of mind’ captain to have chosen for this long journey, but adventure and the benefit-of-the-doubt ideal took the upper-hand and, besides, another crew member would be joining us soon. What harm could come our way.
After a day of stocking up with food, lots of water and a full tank of diesel, we set off.
The first leg of the journey stretched from Mallorca, Spain to Sardinia — an Italian island. We kept the sails at a ‘close-reach’ as we cut across the water and toward Sardinia.
It was exciting to be on a sailing yacht at sea, with a decent 20 knot wind the sails were full, and we expected a relatively consistent wind on the 3 days and 2 nights sail.
The first night of watch-keeping (3 hours on-duty and 3 hours off), the dreams that I’d had of this sailing adventure seemed to be coming true. The feeling of freedom and the fresh air, the duties of taking care of the yacht while at sea and getting to grips with the sails that, if angled correctly, could get the most out of the available wind. To feel the weight of the yacht pulling along the rocking surface of the sea.
The next night of sailing was not as pleasant as the first. When it comes to a weather forecast, I’m sure most of us are aware of the ‘fine print’ when it comes to these forecasts.
At around midnight the wind began accelerating and the waves that came with that wind grew larger and more confused. On the Beaufort scale we had found ourselves in a Force 7 wind (near gale at 28–33 Knots). Enough for me to re-consider my previous romance of the sailing life.
It didn’t take long for the excitement of my first experience of harsh weather to deteriorate into severe sea sickness. The waves whipped up by the Mistral in the Golfe Du Lion (Gulf of the lion) had me hunched over the side railings or alternatively, over a bucket, heaving from the inconsistent and jerky motion of the yacht doing its best to plow through the indecisive waves.
At around 3am our autopilot steering gave way and we had to manually navigate while keeping the sails full and helping the yacht steer into mess of a sea state.
The Mediterranean has a reputation for having extremely violent storms. With its geography, the currents and winds can make the sea very unsettled and with an inconsistent direction and distance from one another. It can make being on a small vessel extremely uncomfortable.
The night had turned into a truly wretched experience. When, on my soaked shifts of watch-keeping, I began to think this sailing I’d been longing for, may well be a little over-hyped. Maybe I’d better get to packing my bags and finding the next airport to make my way to Australia — there was still a LONG way to go.
After waking up the next morning and finding the yacht not being tossed about by waves and the strong winds of the previous night, and instead motoring through a bay off the coast of Sardinia. I pulled my way up through the gangway hatch and found Captain Pete fast asleep on the deck. When I woke him accusingly, he retorted “Well I thought we were on anchor”. Some dream he was having while he was meant to be duty. We really did need another crew mate to join us. If we’d found ourselves grounded, that would have put a sudden slow-down, if not, stop to our journey.
After some deliberations and feeling better after that uncomfortable and stormy night. The knowledge of having another crew member join us in Crete and not willing to give-up the adventure just yet, I had made the decision to stay onboard.
We sailed on past Sicily, having four-days of great winds keeping us going until we eventually arrived in Kalamata, Greece, needing to replenish our supplies and fill up our tanks with Water and Diesel.
As soon as we had anchored in the bay, we were approached by the local authorities and asked to show our passports which needed to be assessed stamped.
While in Kalamata we found out that the ancient ruins of Sparta were a 30-minute drive away. With a car facility near our anchorage, we rented a car and made our way through the hills and past the many olive trees to the historical site of Sparta.
When seeing these ancient ruins, one is awe-struck and overcome with the history of the place. Thinking of what life must have been like in those days (around 400 BC) when the Spartan people roamed that land and lived their way of life. It gives a sense of gravity to the tides of history and the many souls that have passed before us.
