CAPTAIN'S LOG
SEA DATE 15 NOVEMBER 2010
Italy. Sicily.
The Saga of the Sailors continues.
Or ath the chap with the lithp thaid: The Thaga of the Thailorth continueth.
Dear all,
Anchored not a lot of miles from Napoli. Otherwise known as Naples to us English speaking folks. Why is the English name spelt in plural while the Italians have it in the singular? Why did the Brits spell Londres in plural a century or several ago and now spell it as London in the singular. It is a lot bigger now, encompassing dozens of the earlier villages. Perhaps it should now be called Londres? Food for thought.
A rear digression.
This minor scribing is about the French and Italians. Different people - oddly enough.
Not sure where to start, but anchoring is a good topic. I have mentioned in earlier notes that the French have a rather different way of anchoring. They drop the pick, drop their clothes and jump off the back of the boat naked as a jay bird. Can’t argue with that, as the lasses are built like racing tadpoles. I won’t argue until the boat drags. Then I start to jump up and down. But with respect to anchoring, the French are experts when put beside the Italians.
The Italians have a different way of looking at life. They don’t go cruising for the weekend, they go out for the day, drop the pick, swim, drink, strut there stuff, then off again, back to the marina. Further - they have no qualms about anchoring within a few feet of other boats. We have had them a couple of feet off our bow or stern. When asked to move, they won’t. They argue. When I say a couple of feet, I mean precisely that. For everybody (with the USA as the exception of course - who remain imperial), a couple of feet is less than a metre. Just over half a metre. I take photos of them in case they knock into our vessel. The metric Italians, not the imperialist Americans. Some people have no understanding of personal space.
Speaking of imperial vs metric. We have a Kohler generator. I incorrectly assumed that it was German. As in Kohler plumbing equipment. Not. It is an American company. Kohler generators use Yanmar blocks which are made in Japan. The generator starts its life as a metric unit. Wonderful. When Kohler add on bits and bobs to make them into generators, they add on imperial goodies. For example, the salt water pump and the coolant pump, and all other accessory items that require nuts and bolts are all in imperial. I would be less than honest if I did not admit to being a tad pissed off with the mixture of imperial and metric nuts and bolts. The Kohler system is very good, but next time, I go fully metric. The United States of America should realize that the world is bigger than the United States of America. The only Country that I am aware of that has retained the imperial system. Past Presidential arrogance. Unfortunately, Canada feels that it has to conform. All lumber is manufactured in imperial sizes to please the Dudes south of the border. Interestingly, Canada is metric.
Regarding exporting from country to country, in some ways, New Zealand was very fortunate in the late 70’s when the French started to burn truck loads of English lamb and butter. The Brits (God bless ‘em) were exporting British lamb and butter to Europe, yet purchasing and consuming produce from the land of the Kiwi. The Brits were forced to stop importing NZ produce and we (that is me as a Kiwi and not as a Canadian - all very confusing) had to find different markets. It has paid off.
In the meantime, Canada is kowtowing to the United States of America instead of going after other markets. An example. Ikea. Lumber converted into “designer” furniture in Sweden and exported all over the world. Not Canada though. We export lumber in it’s raw state. Where to? The United States of America. Ikea furniture is sold world wide. Huge market. When the US construction industry slows down (or dies as per it’s current state) what happens? The Canadian lumber industry as well.
Where was I. Anchoring. Italy. Napoli. Naples.
We are anchored in a wee bay in a wee island a few miles from Napoli. The Island is called Procida and the bay is Cala di Corricella. A delightful little village built on the face of a cliff. Rather typical of the Italian coastal towns. They appear to rise from the sea. I am guessing that many are built on cliff frontages. Ponza was certainly built that way, as were many towns in both Corsica and Sardinia. The town is rather typical of the small Italian ports, or rather fishing villages. There is a forefront to walk down, varying between 5 and 10 metres from waterfront to building facade. Stone paved with dozens of small fishing boats tied up along the frontage. The frontage is prime restaurant real estate with as many tables as possible crammed onto the forefront. The frontage rises up and steps back up in small pieces or facades of perhaps two rooms per face and to a height of 10 or so stories. Bit like a 3D patch work quilt with its many colours and stepped faces.
Between the buildings are a few access points climbing straight up with steep stairs, running between walls and below flying beams and buttresses. All very quaint.
Back to Naples. Crime and the Mafia seem to run both Italy and Naples. Several years ago the mayor attempted to clamp down on the crime and gang activities and tried to stop the (apparent) tradition of smuggling cigarettes and other goods. The city went on strike as it preferred the crime. Apparently the mafia runs the garbage collection system, so that area has quite a lot of pull. The garbage guys led the strike. Another interesting snippet. A very fertile orange and olive grove area in a high risk earthquake area around Gioia Tauro was replaced with 50 sq. km. of industrial park. This was to do with mafia interests in concrete construction and in turn the Christian Democrat party’s quest for funds. They built a large container port that lay empty for years and has only seen business in recent times. It is apparently Europe’s biggest container port.
We have also noticed that someone is making a lot of money in the bikini department. The manufacturers certainly short change on the material. In fact some of the back ends of the bottoms, they could only afford to plop on a piece of string. I just hope they didn’t pay too much for them.
Same with some of the guys swimming gear. Philip, a fellow cruiser from the West Island (Australia) calls them budgie smugglers. Small gear for a small package. Of course the kit in New Zealand is considerably larger. We affectionately refer to them as cockatoo smugglers. Most likely why we beat them at rugby. The members of the Kiwi rugby clubs are bigger than the Australians.
I have also noticed a difference in the relationship between the english speaking people and the french speaking people. I think I touched on this in a previous scribble. The French are a very happy people. They enjoy life. The people we speak with always want to help with the language difference and love to practice their english. Quite the contrast to the french canadians. In our convertible (the dinghy) we would always go check out people on boats flying a flag we knew. Aussies, Kiwis, Brits, Canadians, Americans. Interestingly, the only people we ever received short shift from were french speaking Canadians. When they realised we were from the West Coast, they would more often than not, turn their delicate little noses up at us. We are at the point now where we always check to see were they are from. If obviously from a french speaking part of Canada, we don’t bother saying “hi”. Damn shame really. Mind you, if the opportunity presented itself on our departure in the big boat, I would always hail them with a very friendly and loud “BONJOUR ..... long pause..... MATE!”
Regrets in life? Not learning more french. A delightful people and a beautiful language.
At this point there is a wee hiccup in my scribbling. We picked up two cruising friends from our home Yacht Club, Manfred and Rita along with one of their sons Thomas. Three days with us and a trip to Capri. Lovely island. Lousy anchorage. It’s rather tricky setting an anchor into bare rock. Won’t dig in very well. Received a telephone call from home telling me that my Dad had passed away. The following day our visitors jumped a ferry back to Napoli and we set forth for Salerno. Our intention was to grab a mooring at a marina, leave Jane on board, and I would fly back home. We visited all the marinas and came up with only one spot. A snip at 1500 Euro. A strictly cash only business. They don’t take plastic. We are told that marinas are another Mafia sideline. Jane didn’t like the vibes at the place while I was gone. Our port-side neighbour was a 50 foot power boat owned by a 24 year old Lass. Her boyfriend told Jane that they were getting a 70 footer next year as the 50 footer was too small. All they did was party. No work. No job. Just clubbing. Wonder what business Daddy was in?
I was back on board in two weeks and we departed three days later, when the wind had died. We sallied fifth for Sicily. Interesting ship drivers down here. Duyden 3, looked like a 100 - 150 metre tramp ship. Passed about 200 metres off. I scanned the boat and didn’t see anyone “peering our way”. I called the Captain - or Helmsman - and asked if everything was okay on board, as he just missed us. That’s me at my tactful best. He said he was okay, thank you. My pleasure - mate.
Our first stop was Stromboli. This is the first of a bunch (group?) of islands to the North of Sicily. Lot of history here. Stromboli is perhaps the oldest lighthouse in the world. A rather live volcano that still lights up. It is the leading light through the straights of Messina. We did an early morning cruise by her. Not as exciting as Ruapehu at home when she blows. Mind you, Stromboli is always letting off steam - never stops, so there is no big build up of pressure. The group of Islands are known as the Aeolian triangle. A small area that can blow like stink when the surrounding areas are quiet. They get there name from Aeolus, the god of winds. In Odyssey, Aeolus gives Odysseus a wee bag of wind and is told not to open it until he gets back to Ithaca. The crew open the damn thing and he is blown way off course.
Stopped next at Isola Vulcano. Again, a crater that is always steaming. Delightful village at the top north east corner called Porto di Levante. We dropped the pick close to a beach that had bubbling mud pools at one end. Jane and I snuck in there when it was dark - bottle of wine in hand, and lay in the tepid mud to hopefully make us 10 years younger. In fact the only change that I really noticed is that we stank of rotten eggs, and we hadn’t even eaten eggs!
We didn’t stay long at Sicily. The anchorages down that neck of the woods are not the best. The holding was good but the shelter negligible. So again we sallied - onward to the Peloponnisos Peninsula, Greece. We waited at Taomina for what would hopefully be a reasonably benign crossing. Our original destination was to the islands just north of the Peloponnisos - distance across 235 miles, so we headed out at 10 in the morning, with the intention of crossing below the toe of the boot of Italy before sundown. That would give us two nights for the crossing and we would avoid big boat traffic. Our Aussie friends on Fabuloso had had a sod of a crossing. Maximum wind 48 knots (mph is knots X 1.2 so that would be 55 mph) and mountainous seas. Of course we have to allow for proverbial Aussie exaggeration, but in any event a nasty crossing. The seas in the Med are baaaad. When it blows, a big short sea builds up very quickly. The Atlantic at least has seas which are longer than their height! We were hoping for a quiet crossing, with the weather report advising not a lot of wind. We figured an average speed of say 6 knots.
Our speed was quite a lot more, so we headed a bit further south to increase our distance so we would not arrive early in the morning - with no light to see the coast and inherent dangers. So far we have always arrived at a new anchorage during the day. Hitting something while entering an unknown anchorage can ruin your day.
Midday we arrived at Methoni. What a beautiful little town. A large Venetian fort at the entrance with a tower right on the point built by the Turks. We spent the next 11 days ambling around to a spot called Kathi. For in-depth verbal about the places we visited and people we met, please refer to Jane’s blog.
While anchored off Sicily waiting for a spot of good weather, we met an Aussie couple who gave us valuable info regarding transiting Greece. We are advised that it is “reasonably” acceptable to “transit” Greek waters if you don’t stop at the main towns. This avoids paying for a cruising permit and transit log and other fees payable at each port. For non EEC boats of our size, change out of 500 Euro would be rather negligible. Fortunately we had no intention of using any port facilities or marinas. Even more fortunate, the Greek suits are not the most enthusiastic of workers and don’t climb into their boats to come check on papers. (Apparently they don’t have many boats). However, if you tie up at a marina, they are on you in a flash.
Back to our arrival at Methoni. We haul in astern of a Brit boat and with seaman like manner toss out the old favourite “ahoy there”. No response. No one. Not a flicker. We slide on and drop the pick. A head appears from the inside of the Brit boat. This time Jane calls out. Then two more heads appear. The smaller variety. Two little lasses. This gets Jane excited. Not sure why. We had two of our own of a similar size years ago. Thought she would have got over it. Then the Mum appears. Jane starts to jump up and down and saying we can look after them while they have some time on their own. I start to shake nervously. Then suggest that the girls can all have some time together and we blokes can go off and have some bloke time.
An hour later, they pull up beside us in their dinghy and invite us on board their boat for drinks. “Thought you would never offer” says I.
We end up following each others paths off and on until our departing about ten days later. Lovely family. The two little ones called Libby and Poppie. Mum and Dad called Charlie and Steve. Always found that confusing. The Charlie was Mum. Curiously, the Steve was the Dad.
As we were traveling incognito (as it were) through the waters of Greece, we would never use our boat name. Just in case the Greek authorities had their ears to the VHF radio and did a check on our name. They called us the Kiwi cat and we called them the Brit Bennie. They sailed a Beneteau.
Our cruising through the Greek waters was a challenge. Always blowing. The most interesting was our trip from Elafonisis - south east corner of the Peloponnisis penninusla to the Cyclades. A bunch of bare and windy islands. Distance about 65 miles, so we decide to do an overnighter. We head at 1700 hours with just over two hours of light. Our first challenge is to get round a point that is just raining big boats. Not sail boats but the big steel variety. The ones that hurt if they hit you. They are en route to and from Athens. Athens is East around the corner and then turn left. Northish. We count over a dozen boats bigger than us. Ships. Steel ones. To make it interesting, there are no separation lanes, and some of the boats cut the corner. A bit like driving the Amalfi coast in Italy. No one gives an inch. We always try to cross the road at right angles. Faster and safer. We make it through (a reasonable assumption, or you wouldn’t be reading this) and I hit the sack for some shut eye until my watch at 2300 hours.
Jane kicks me at 5 minutes before my watch. Everything is okay, except one minor detail. Barometer is noted in the log every hour. It always gets a wee tap, just to keep it awake. Jane’s log at change of watch notes the barometer dropping from 1019 to 1010. A 9 point drop. I start to put a lot of stuff away. Making things a bit more secure than we usually do for a passage. Jane jumps on the ham radio (fortunately she is pretty light) and gets the latest grib file. A grib file is a weather pikkie. Nothing out of the norm. Perhaps a tad more windy stuff, but nothing too onerous. I am still unsure. I see a ship on the horizon - yes, it is just like that out here with ships on the horizon. No red sunset though. In fact it’s dark. All I can see are lights in the distance. The ship finally pops up on the AIS (automatic identification system) so I call him on the vhf radio to enquire about the weather. Just like chatting at the bus stop really. The Captain confirms the barometer at 1010, and also confirms force 5 to force 6 with gusts to 30 knots. That makes me happy. ‘ish. Turns out he is correct. As it happens, he is going our way. He is now a lot closer. A big cruise ship. He is coming up from behind and our courses seem to be converging. I call him and mention in passing - between chats about the weather - that we appear to be going for the same spot. “Would you like me to change course ?” I tentatively ask. As he is the passing vessel, we have the right of way. A mute point really, given the size difference. He says we are okay, but I am still nervous. As far as I am concerned he is inside my personal space. Too close for comfort. I decide to alter course 10 degrees. At the same time the wind jumps to 25 knots. We were ambling along at 5.5 knots and he was going 22 knots. Our speed jumps to 9.5 knots. He is probably wondering what we are up to. I alter course another 30 degrees and our speed jumps again. The wind is now just aft of the beam, very close to our fastest point of sailing. He finally passes and the Captain waves as he passes. Probably French as I smell a Gitane cigarette.
At one in the morning, the moon is getting ready for bed. Two o’clock and it is pitch black, all except for a lot of floating cities. Must be a cruise ship convention. Five of them.
I won’t bore people too much now. We arrived at a goodly sheltered harbour at around 10 in the morning, dripped the inca and wint to bid. Tired. Island Filos, as in pastry but plural.
I am a little behind the time in my writs so will stop here. The next one will bring us through Greece and into Turkey where we are forced to socialize with other members of the human race.
Signing off
Her Jane
Me Russell