A cruise through blues 3

Only after pulling the bows up onto the little beach at Aigua-xellida did I realise how tired I was. Before my limbs got too heavy I knew that I had to reconfigure the boat for eating and sleeping and then cook and hit the sack.

The cove was hidden in a deep shade of the gloomy sort that you don’t often see in the Mediterranean and much less in summer. I’d stopped here on my last cruise up the coast and I hadn’t remembered it as being so lugubrious. However, it was calm and sheltered and I could get a decent rest without worrying about the boat or being disturbed by fishing boat wake, swell, beach cleaners, revellers or other noises from the shore.

I cooked up a nice mess of onions, anchovies, potatoes and tomatoes and was just making myself comfortable prior to eating when the mosquitoes arrived.

While receiving chemotherapy my blood had been so foul tasting and of such poor quality that mosquitoes had turned their noses up at me. But now I found that I was back on the menu. Big time. With the damn things in my mouth and eyes I climbed into the sleeping bag, covered my head and thought about getting the snorkel out of the stern locker. Sleep eventually came.

The dawn brought fresh hordes and I packed up everything as quickly as possible and got the hell out. Not far offshore they gave up the chase. I stopped rowing and had a look at the chart.

The next good stopping place lay about an hour north I reckoned. I rowed easily over the glassy swell the masts swaying smoothly across the lightening sky but there must have been a southerly setting current for after an hour I was only half way.

After two hours at the oars I found myself thinking hard about breakfast. ‘I’ll have a couple o’ fried eggs.’ I sang to the sky, ‘...and six rashers of bacon, four slices of bread and a fried tomato oh yeah! And two, yeah I said twooo cups of teeeee.’ And so on until I was dribbling down my shirtfront.

I pulled gently round the rocks at Sa Tuna, a flag on the headland hung limp and damp with dew. The waters were morning-pale and absolutely transparent, the only noise was the splash of oars and the creak of rope on wood. Cala Jugadora tucked under steep cliffs had a good view of the flag and would make the perfect spot to wait for the forecast winds that would send me northwards.

I slung out the hook and set about making breakfast.