I have recently returned from Ibiza where work held me hostage for 10 days. A mix up with the ferry reservation meant that I had to stay two days longer than ideal, but that wasn’t a problem; my closest friend lives on the island. He arranged a scooter for me and I spent a pleasant day exploring some of the coastline.
Ibiza is well known for its club scene, its appeal to lascivious tourists on drug and alcohol fuelled sex quests and its new breed of super-gentry and their Hollywood style hillside residences. 30 years ago the island was still a Mediterranean peasant culture, today it is a hotchpotch of well heeled northern Europeans, old hippies, islanders and itinerant workers. What the island is not so well recognised for is its suitability for small boat cruising.
I guided my Yamaha steed through pine woods, along twisting roads and down impossibly steep and bendy dirt tracks to discover fantastically calm coves even when the wind at sea was a boisterous force 5. Places like Cala Carbó or Cala Vedella on the southwest coast are enough to make a small boat owner with dreams of cruising drool. Shallow, millpond calm sea right up to the beach perfect for landing and hauling the boat ashore, crystal water, pale sand and nooks under cliffs for camping. Many beaches like Cala d’Hort have restaurants others like Cala Xuncla have nothing but a small sandy beach, large rocks and pine trees. And all of these places are off limits to the growling plastic super yachts that criss cross the wider, deeper waters.
This is Es Vedra, a towering rock island off the southwest of Ibiza, which dominates the view from Cala d’Hort. The rock is said to possess a weird magnetism, and certainly one’s eyes are always drawn towards it, but I was more interested in the channel between the rock and the main island. Locally known as el canal de la muerte, the channel of death, with anything above a force four from the west vicious tornados form. Waves jostling and jockeying through the gap steepen and break and boats would do well to avoid it.
Cala d’Hort, small fishing boats are winched up rails into the boatsheds. Cala Carbó. Cala Vedella, calm in force five.Calm Talamanca Bay. Elderly girls in need of restoration. Great food from La Grande Bouffe catering Ibiza
I took the night ferry back to Barcelona. Westerlies had swung to Easterlies pumping large waves into the usually calm Bahia de Talamanca. As we pulled away from the Balearic archipelago and into the open Mediterranean the seas grew bigger. Lying on my bunk, listening to the ferry’s vast structure groan, it seemed I was, alternately, hovering weightlessly over my bed and being crushed into my pillow. Sleep being unforthcoming I dressed and went on deck. It was 4 o’clock in the morning; an apparent wind of about 30 knots was whipping the deck puddles to fury as they sloshed from one side to another forcing icy water through the stitching in my shoes. Lightning quickstepped across the utter blackness that enveloped the world outside the ship. And from the east came dark beasts of rollers, their crests glowing in the lights from the ferry as they smashed into our frothing wake. I felt a wild vertigo; my hands gripping the freezing rail, the wind tearing at my face, eyes running, the cold needling through my clothing as the huge ferry lurched beneath me. I may even have screamed back at the elements, like a dog barking from behind the leg of his owner, elated to be experiencing these conditions from the security of a ship.
Recently hanging out with a couple of French skippers both owners of sturdy aluminium yachts, one leaving for Brazil the other making ready, I noticed a greenish hue infusing my skin. Jawing in the cosy wood-panelled saloon of Philippe Herzog’s 36 footer, Le Grobedam I contemplated throwing him overboard and taking off for Brazil myself.
It seems that all the liveaboards and long distance sailors are leaving this stretch of Mediterranean for cheaper climes. I don’t blame them. A berth in the local marina for a 12-metre boat now costs 500 euros a month in the low season. Torredembarra used to have good reputation as a decent place to winter and six years ago there were maybe eight boats on extended cruises or circumnavigations passing the colder months refitting here. This year there are none.
The marina’s still full, there are plenty of boats to look at even if they are gleaming bulbous things with acres of freeboard, but the migration of the blue-water bunch means less people to chat with.
Liveaboards wintering in a foreign port love to meet people, yarn about boats, swap books and party. Maybe because they know that we’re all equal in a force eight Atlantic gale, or because their ownership is an expression of their philosophy rather than a brash demonstration of their socio economic status, this class of sailor is approachable in a way that I haven’t yet experienced from the owners of the latest plastic boat show gizmos.
But there’s only one cure for a lack of like-minded sailors and that’s more sailing. November has seen continuous northerlies blasting out of the Gulf of Lions. This is the Tramontana wind that, blowing at over 30 knots, heaps up the seas and launches five-metre waves at the coast of Minorca—I believe the port of Mahon has been closed all month. Some of this marauding swell, fanning out from the Gulf, curves round to break on Onawind Blue’s beach and, while it might be great to photograph, it’s a bitch to launch through. But last weekend brought flat seas.
Unconcerned by the lack of wind I got out at 11am and stood to the oars. I rowed for about an hour—as far as the marina and, had there been any interesting people berthed there, would have thought about paying a visit. As it was I continued rowing until my hands started to blister. Luckily this coincided with a light breath from the southwest and gentle cat’s-paws scurrying across the water. The growing wind caught the sails and with relief I stowed the oars while we headed towards the horizon with the rudder still raised.
After close reaching for an hour we went broad, sailing parallel to the coast but way out to sea. Controlling our course by raising or lowering the centreboard, and with judicious use of the main sheet, we scooted northeast. When well downwind of our launch spot I put the board fully down and went back to close reaching out to sea. Having regained some ground to weather I tacked with a push-stroke of the windward oar and we made a course for home. It took a little over an hour to gain the land. Arriving slightly up wind of our chosen spot I struck the mizzenmast and raised the centreboard, letting OB sail herself dead downwind onto the beach. Apart from my extremities behaving like far-away frozen appendages I felt better than I had all month. While I hadn’t exactly made a passage to Brazil I’d carved up the local H2O and felt like a sailor for it.
This short film (quite similar to the last one) shows Onawind Blue flying over the briny the way she loves best. Note the (green) line holding the mizzen boom to leeward, this keeps the sail more firmly sheeted and allows us to sail a straighter course.
The three weeks since Onawind Blue’s lithe form last glided through the briny have seen the transition from balmy waters to biting cold sea complete. Short afternoons offering varied wind strengths served on rolling swells have failed to tempt us out. Onawind Blue shelters under a tarpaulin waiting for this long run of high seas to subside sufficiently to launch without wetting more than the ankles.
In lieu of any sailing stories here are some photos of the Mediterranean’s moods from over the past month.
I hadn’t been sailing for a while, fickle winds and autumnal seas giving a big thumbs down every time I thought about readying the boat for an outing. On the plus side this gave OB a chance to dry out thoroughly—the forward and after lockers both harboured damp from water that trickles in down the masts. Not a significant amount of water comes through the tight fittings, even in a capsize situation, but enough to maintain a permanent state of sogginess. On the down side I didn’t capitalize on the boat being dry to address the pending repairs. Lack of organization saw us back on the water without more epoxy on the skeg or reinforced scantlings for the thole pins and oars.
With a pleasant force two blowing over a flat sea I found OB’s sweet spot by juggling with the sheeting angles and adjusting course with the oars until, with the rudder raised, she sailed herself close hauled. One long push on the windward oar being sufficient to bring us about we sailed short tacks, for a couple of hours, to and fro, towards the horizon.
Comfortably reclining on the forward thwart, I drank a beer and ate a sandwich then, not having to attend to the tiller, fell to musing. I won’t detail the labyrinthine route that my brain took through varied topics, suffice it to say that along the way I briefly ruminated on the subject of the title of this post.
Just a few kilometres off-shore but a world away from the worries of the land time slowed as OB bore me over the water, her bow rising to each wave and her sails balanced and drawing.
Well on the way to Neverland it took an act of will power to raise the centerboard and sheet out the sail for our long run home. I didn’t lower the rudder but unshipped the mizzen instead and OB sailed herself dead down wind.
I watched the land as it crowded towards us and judging there to be no hazards in the form of unmanageable breaking waves let Onawind Blue sail herself up the beach.
On the unyielding sand I thought about what we’d just done; sailed for three and a half hours without touching the tiller—the rudder had come home dry.
Too blurry to feel much like sailing I couldn’t resist the strengthening wind. After a week of feeble puffs and pants from all directions it brightened my dull eyes just to see a steady, force three onshore breeze. Unable to miss a chance to further test Onawind Blue’s new rig I quietly prepared her for the water.
An easterly swell crossed seas with the southerly wind-blown chop and the afternoon sun reflected searing spears of light over the water. Keeping my back to the optical onslaught I rowed out, hoisted main and mizzen and sailed away on a close reach, my plan simply to try OB on all points of sail.
The limitation of not looking at the light meant that I favored the starboard tack and steadily we went out to sea tacking or gybing now and then for a short run on port.
I experimented balancing the sails on all points and found that she sailed herself best close hauled—good news for a boat that does plenty of windward sailing. Further off the wind I kept the sheeting angles equal and OB bowled along on the rising breeze. Going broad I raised the centerboard and kept my weight central trying to encourage OB to plane. On the verge of taking off she entertained me with an in-board water fountain that pumped thick gouts of sea up through the centerboard case.
Coming back up to weather the heavier tiller told me that we were over-pressed. But as we crashed over the water I found my face fixed with a wild grin. We reached back and forth carving a wide, frothing groove over the sea. I had to wrestle her round the corners as the larger seas smacked into her bows, slowing her sometimes to standstill. I sailed towards the beach remembering Allard Coles’ lines about the best heavy weather tactic being the avoidance of strong winds and seas. But at the point where I normally strike the sails and ship the oars I tacked and charged back out to sea thinking, ‘Just a couple more runs.’
I’ve learnt from windsurfing that last runs can be fatal and I knew that the longer I was out the heavier the seas would grow. Rowing in would be challenging but I didn’t want to think about that right now as I sat out on the side deck with spray cascading over the bows.
Then a gust hit and before I could release the main sheet the lee rail was buried and the gushing water forcing the port oar off its pin. With the main sheet released we came head to wind in a mass of crazy flapping canvas.
That hadn’t been a gust, just the wind notching up to a solid force four—and rising.
The sun disappeared behind clouds as I got back underway. The breeze was too strong for normal sailing and I had to spill wind to stay comfortable. The waves, at three to four feet, signaled it was time to head home.
Anchored well off I struck the sails and baled. While head down to the task in hand a mass of water crashed over the boat. I watched the wave’s back as it thundered on towards the shore—that one was definitely too big for us. Looking at the scene before me I was none too clear about how I would reach the beach. And then my family appeared. Only one thing would bring them out on an overcast windy afternoon and that was apprehension—an apprehension that I found infectious.
Reckoning that seeing their father and his boat getting trashed in surf would put my kids off boating, I decided it was more important than ever to land safely. To that end I set off rowing down the coast away from my normal landing place.
Out walking the day before I’d seen a spot where water gathering behind the dunes during the recent rains had broken across the beach. The freak river had eroded the beach and a channel out to sea. This would be the ideal landing spot. There was a slight rip tide in the narrow channel and with the whistling crosswind it was difficult to stay on course. But the important thing was that the waves were barely breaking here and I landed without mishap on the low stretch of beach.
The spontaneous jig that I danced upon reaching dry land rather gave me away although I behaved as nonchalantly as ever in front of the children.
My partner kindly enquired after my hangover. ‘What hangover?’ I replied and looked back out at the sea; in four months of sailing Onawind blue I reckon I’ve had larger doses of adrenaline than in four years of windsurfing. I know that I go on a lot about the issues of launching and landing in waves. It’s part of the reality of my sailing spot and is something that all craft from Onawind Blue through Optimists, Lasers and Hobbie Cats to speedboats and jet skis have to deal with. At one time or another I’ve seen all these craft come to grief in the waves (seeing a jet ski getting worked is a joy indeed) and I don’t think OB is any less suitable in these conditions than any other small boat.
The more I take her out in testing condition the more I learn and the faster my confidence in our abilities grows. On the open sea I’m beginning to suppose that her limit is around the top end of a force four. On sheltered waters she promises to be very worthy indeed.
Just to give an idea of the conditions we can get on the north-western Mediterranean here’s some footage of me fooling about on the windsurfer in an easterly force 5.
Slightly perplexed by articles I’d been reading regarding stability, I decided to capsize OB. Maybe perplexed isn’t the right word; I was aware that nothing I read would tell me as much about OB’s initial stability, righting moment or angle of vanishing stability as actually rolling her over in the drink. I turned her empty hull in the shallows hoping to beach her if she proved reluctant to right.
As I had suspected from her flaring lower chines she had a lot of initial stability. I struggled to tip her through the first 45º but she rose quickly through the second 45º and continued over. To right her I put a hand in the daggerboard slot and a big toe on the gunnel and that was enough, she flipped happily. OB came up less than half full, lower in the water for it and slightly less stable.
Had I been more scientific about the capsize I no doubt could have learnt more. It would have been interesting to take her half way over and then let go to see which way she’d fall if left to her own devices. I could have totally swamped her too.
In the face of my scientific failings I can only say that capsizing and swamping one’s own boat intentionally requires a psychological effort that I could not maintain.
However, while the camera was still running I had a little row and practiced coming in to the beach a few times. The waves were small and on the last run I tried my new technique.
The videos are of a quality that long suffering followers of this blog must be getting used to. In this case I didn’t have the correct cable to transfer the film from the video camera to the computer and had to resort to filming the images direct from the television screen with my coolpix stills camera. However, the light that afternoon was good so the colours are alive and the general effect reminds me of old super 8 films.
I’ve had an opportunity to sail Onawind Blue with her new rig on all points of sail but in very light airs. I couldn’t get her to sail herself efficiently in these conditions but going so slowly it hardly matters. I’m very pleased with OB as a yawl and with the smaller rudder, though I now think that my issues with the previous rudder may well have been solved (to a degree) by a balanced yawl rig. She’s still short of sailcloth but maybe that’s a good thing given the gung-ho situations she gets herself into.
After last week’s successful and immensely enjoyable cruise to Tamarit and back I’ve come down with an intense bout of daydreaming. Blissing out on the anticipation of adventures to come my plans take me all over the western Med. And while food burns in the pan as I stir it, I merely smell the dying embers of a beach campfire, lie back and let my eyes drift across the heavens. At this stage my family has to pick me up off the floor and rescue lunch, while I explain that I’m fine, absolutely fine, just thinking…you know…‘bout my boat.
Here is a short video of Onawind Blue leaving Tamarit cove last week.
As so often happens in films and photos, the sea doesn’t look quite as large as it seemed to me from in the thick of it. My experience of rowing out that morning was almost certainly intensified by worries about how the sea would develop over the day and how I would manage the journey home.
The unsightly fenders tailing behind are used to move the boat on the beach. Were I to pause to stow them before I started to row I’d quickly find the waves pushing me up against the beach and flooding the boat. Towing the fenders also thoroughly de-sands them.
I’m grateful to Pep for filming me, for getting right out there on the rocks to do it and for finding such a good angle. It’s good to see the castle coming in to shot as I forgot to get a photo of it myself.
a towering rock island off the southwest of Ibiza, which dominates the view from Cala d’Hort. The rock is said to possess a weird magnetism, and certainly one’s eyes are always drawn towards it, but I was more interested in the channel between the rock and the main island. Locally known as el canal de la muerte, the channel of death, with anything above a force four from the west vicious tornados form. Waves jostling and jockeying through the gap steepen and break and boats would do well to avoid it.
Calm Talamanca Bay.
