Sailing from Spain

Spain

On the Land

11/7

I rented a car and drove with George to Miami for our flight to Madrid. I had packed way too much, immediately apparent trying to lug it through the airport. Standing in line at the ticket counter I viewed a video explaining what was banned from flights" firearms, explosives, corrosives" and compressed gasses.Shit! My life vest / harness had a small CO2 cylinder. $5,000 fine, 5 yr. Imprisonment and these days they are serious.

With my ball point pen, I slashed open the cardboard box I had carefully packed with sailing gear and equipment and dug under towels and thermal underwear to find the zippered bag with the life vest and extra cylinders.

At the counter, I presented them to the ticket agent, who with a puzzled look consulted her supervisor.To my relief, he said it was ok to bring one in the device and one spare. He confiscated the second spare. Well, I didn't plan to need even one and if I ended up in the drink three times, I deserved to die! I repacked the box, resealed it with the tape I'd brought for just such an occasion and headed for the gate.

I hate airplanes. I'm not afraid to fly, they are simply uncomfortable and this one was full to capacity, leaving no legroom to stretch out. Five hours into the ten-hour flight, my legs and back were cramped and the Tylenol C was little help.Now as I write, seated beneath the canopy of a beach front cantina in Barbate de Franco (don't ask" the main street is named Avenida de Generalisimo), sipping my cerveza (Cruzcampo pilsen Heineken Espana), the long gone cramps were worth it.

Friday 11/8

My first image of Spain, landing in Madrid was the terrible air pollution. From the airport northeast of Madrid the sky was still blue. In the bowl that contains the capital of Spain, sloshes a soup of carcinogens belched forth from poorly regulated industry and automobiles still burning leaded gas.

A cab ride took us to the Renfe train station where we purchased tickets to Malaga on the Mediterranean coast and I retired to a cafe for a delicious, strong Spanish style coffee.The Spanish railroad car was a striking contrast to the uncomfortable airplane. A wide, comfortable seat with lots of leg room was well appreciated" and this was only tourist class!

The train left Madrid in an arc south through Cordoba. The scenery, though pleasant, was far from beautiful. Arid hills and mountains flecked with olive groves and tired old towns still evidence Spain's relatively recent political chaos. The constant ringing of cell phones and young Spaniards chatting away felt like an anachronism when I gazed through the window.

And as I write this in Barbate, only feet from me, sits an elegant Spanish woman, middle aged, my age, mid 50's, sipping her cafe con leche, taking in the expanse of Mer Atlantico in mid afternoon. Espana has changed and the change continues.

When George and I arrived in Malaga we had been traveling together for 24 hours and I had been awake for seven more than that. Fatigue was catching up with me, but George, at 66 years, was showing it more. Having once lived in Spain, George knew the language, so he went for a phone to make a hotel reservation. My good friend, Walter Roth, had given me info about a nice, reasonably priced hotel in Malaga, Hotel Sur. With phone number in hand, George set out to make the call. In our weariness, we neglected to notice the signs in the train station for a phone and George began a forty minute excursion in search of one.

First, he could not figure out how to use the phones. On the third try he learned to put in the money first, then dial. Great! Hotel Sur had a room for us. Uh-oh, where is the rail road station" George was lost! I began to worry. Give him a few minutes more" Maybe I should just get a cab and head for Hotel Sur" in a few more minutes" there he is, rounding the corner"whew!

Load everything in a cab. "Boy, is Ned going to owe us a lot of beer for hauling all this extra gear for him", George declared. Well, only one bag of gear was Ned's, the rest the result of my over packing. Hey, I want clean socks and underwear every day!

If anyone owed anyone anything, we owed Walter. Hotel Sur was clean, convenient and relatively cheap. If we didn't know about this, we could have landed in an expensive hell house.

After checking in and washing up we walked into the nearby plaza to look for a meal. George was convinced that we would never find a decent restaurant because in his experience the Spanish don't go out until 9 or 10. This notion was reinforced by the fact that the cafe recommended by the Hotel clerk was not yet open at 7PM. We found a cafeteria style restaurant with adequate paella and with a full stomach, I put George to bed.

A shower and a change of shoes and at 9PM I was off to see the sights and taste the local brew. Cormac McCarthy (the singer/songwriter, not the author) said, "to know the local people, drink the local beer", and I intended to do so. But first, I took a walk through the plaza, now coming to life on Friday night.

Then I turned down a narrow street, passed apartments and cantinas and shops, beautiful old Andalusian architecture, balconies and weaving streets, stone and concrete buildings and cobblestone walks made for ox carts. I moved among couples hand in hand, women in high-heeled shoes clicking on cobblestones, defying their ankle breaking irregularity. I turned a corner and arrived at a breathtakingly beautiful cathedral. A museum. A towering edifice of turrets and bell towers. It's beauty stopped me dead in my tracks. I walked around it, always looking up at the imposing structure, a lump in my throat. It was magnificent!

I then rounded another corner to find an even more impressive structure. I stopped and looked up the hill at the incredible, shear walls of stone and resolved to return the next day. This had to be seen in the light of day!

I back tracked passing now awakening bars and found a new alley, a curving alley with the sound of people laughing. As I passed a cantina the sounds were inviting and the people inside were smiling and eating and drinking. I entered and at the bar ordered a cerveza. The bartender, the owner, a mid 30's young man poured a flute of the local tap. I took a sip from the tall, thin glass and enjoyed the ambience of the small, narrow room.

A TV on the wall played soccer and commercials for Don Lavoro (Mr. Clean) and Eddie, the owner, raced to fill patron's orders. People requested dishes of cheese and bread and sausage to be shared by couples and families. A couple arrived at the bar beside me and ordered a plate and drinks. Eddie retrieved two large glasses, goblets, and uncorked a green bottle. He held the glasses in his left hand and lifted the bottle as far above his head as possible, pouring its contents in an accurate stream to the glasses. He wiggled the glasses while the fluid splashed inside and as an inch filled the bottom of the four inch tall goblet, he placed them on the bar. Eddie then placed the mostly full liter bottle on the bar before them and the patrons belted down the brew.

Minutes later the patrons nodded and Eddie performed his act once again. The presentation was as much a part of the enjoyment. Streams of golden-clear liquid splashed into cups that the couple belted back.

My curiosity got the best of me and I asked the man beside me, "Hable Inglis?"
"No", he smiled.

"That", I pointed to the empty cup and green bottle and shrugged.

"Sidra", he smiled and laughed. He bagan to speak and realized that I did not unbderstand a word, then he said again, "Sidra" pocito alchohol."

Ah! Pocito. I remember the rock group, Poco"Small. Pocito, very small. Sidra, oh yes, cider! Some kind of Spanish cider! He offered me a drink and told Eddie to pour three this time. As he handed it to me, he tipped his head back quickly to indicate that I should slug it" one big gulp.

Frankly, the brew was nothing special, but the kindness, the generosity of this stranger made it one of the most tasty drinks I have ever"

(ED. As I sit here at this beachfront cafe, writing" OH, MY GOD! Out across the water, through the haze of the late afternoon I see mountains! Is it Africa? I look to the proprietor and back to the mountains. He sees in the look on my face that something is on my mind and he hurries to my table. I point across the water and say, "Es Africa!"

He is clearly excited by my excitement, "Si" si, es Morroc!" It is Morocco! I have seen Africa! Through the haze, across the Atlantic are the mountains of Morocco! I will not walk upon it, but I have seen it. Africa! I can imagine the Moors looking back once upon a time, and saying, "Hey, let's go see what's there!" And staying until the Spaniards drove them out.)

In the little bar in Malaga, couples and families came and went. I sipped my beer and enjoyed the ambience. Someday I would like to visit Ireland again. To sit in an Irish pub with Mary and Robert or John Cunningham. To sip a Guinness among my blood. But Spain" this part of Spain" Andalusia"

My first hint of their beauty was in Molly Bloom's soliloquy. "and Gibraltar as a girl where I was a Flower of the mountain yes when I put the rose in my hair like the Andalusian girls used" Andalusian girls are lovely. They are sexy and demure. They are sweet and happy. From the youngest to the oldest, they are among the most alluring women on earth. And Andalusian men are handsome and friendly. Eden is not in the middle east, it is Andalusia!

"The rest of Europe" I have seen France and Germany, Italy, Austria and Switzerland" been there, done that" but Espana, Andalusia" I want to return here" Andalusia"

After midnight I felt it was time to move on. I had been awake 38 hours. I left the thinning crowd and TV of quirky Spanish commercials and turned right. At the corner I turned right again and spotted a Guinness sign hanging over the entrance of a pub. "O'Neil's" said the sign above the door. An Irish pub in Costa del Sol! Give me a break, how could I resist? 38 Hours is nothing! "O'Neil's" in Spain!

Inside, a young woman in bare midriff was setting up a booth to promote LARIOS London Dry Gin, distilled in Malaga. What will they think of next? So I ordered a pint of Guinness. It was 12:30AM and the place was just coming alive. A sign on the wall announced that on Sunday at 8:30PM, on the wide screen TV, you could watch the Washington Redskins play the Eagles. I nurse my Guinness, but in an hour I have had it. I retire to Hotel Sur and George asks, "What time is it?"

"20 til 2."

Saturday, 11/9

"It's 10 o'clock," I haven't slept this late since" I can remember.

We are up and out in no time. Coffee at the cafe on the corner, then a tour of Malaga. All the sights I reconnoitered last night. The cathedral, the fort.

The fort is enormous, far larger than El Moro in San Juan, Puerto Rico, it stretches over two hillsides. Unlike El Moro, it is set back from the sea, but when one stands at the turrets you can imagine the ease of a cannon lobbing ammo upon unfriendly ships.

Through the maze of rooms at the Alcazar you are awed at the incredible feat it took to construct this. Remarkably, throughout the structure are a collection of fountains and tubs, always replenished from a mysterious source. Aquaducts were formed into the floor, constantly flowing, so that in a room water washed along a wall, draining to a tub. In the stone courtyards it streamed along the ground, into fountains, then flowed to the next level of the fort.

Do you remember Chevy Chase in the movie, "Vacation"? When he got to the Grand Canyon, he walked to the rim, bobbed his head three times and was ready to go. That was George. I would have been happy had he gone on his own and allowed me to explore on my on, but"

So we left the Alcazar, took a stroll to a beautiful plaza, recommended by my friend Walter, where Picasso painted and sipped coffee. I ordered a cup of cafe solo (black coffee) and sat at a sidewalk table while George drank a beer. We needed to make plans to get to Barbate the next day and had to decide bus or train"

We took a city bus to the main terminal to check a schedule for Barbate (bar-bah-tay). The ticket agent spoke no English and had a great deal of trouble figuring out the tow we were destined. George must have still been tired, because he kept pronouncing it Bar-bate. He had lived in Madrid for a year, so one would have thought his pronunciation would have been better. Rather, it sounded more as if he was discussing a woman of ill-repute at a state-side watering hole, than the location of a lovely seaside pueblo.

George's inability to get the ticket agent to understand really set him off. He was getting very agitated as if we would never get to Barbate. I told him not to worry, there was a bus to La Linea or Algeceris. From there we would easily find Barbate. This was no comfort, and he began pacing in the lobby and talking to himself.

I suggested we take a break at a sidewalk cafe for a cerveza. This calmed him down and over the beer we discussed possibly taking a train to Cadiz and a bus to Barbate. The Renfe was across the street so we checked the schedule. Less than $20 to Cadiz, change in Dos Hermanos, south of Seville. It was decided, the train. Ah, George calmed down!

This resolved, we made for Hotel Sur to wash up. George wanted to know what we were going to do for dinner. Anything was good for me. "Well, this is a nocturnal society and nothing will open till 9 or 10 to eat and besides, nothing will be happening on Saturday night because these people go out on Friday night and Saturday night is dead. I'd go out with you if it wasn't Saturday night, but nothing is going to be happening" and he droned on and on as we walked

"There's a Burger King", he said. "Kids are getting fat here, just like in the US. Want to go to Burger King?" Sure. Get some food in him and maybe he'll calm down. Beside, I hear they sell beer in BK's in Spain. Now that would be novel. So in we went. Sure enough, beer at the BK. The sign said Cerveza, Regular, Gigante"

Oh, yeah, a Gigante Cerveza at BK. I imagined a paper cup the size of Big Gulp. So I ordered, but the Gigante was only half as large as a Big Gulp and in one of those thin, plastic glasses. But I kept my receipt, Whopper, Cerveza Gigante. Perhaps I'll frame it when I get home. Or scan it into the computer and e-mail it to Joe Kaiser with a picture of me sipping the Gigante"

After the Whopper George decided, to my relief, to hit the hay and I headed back to old Malaga. Another leisurely stroll through narrow street, rife with history, culture and tradition.

I found myself on the calle that housed the lively cantina I visited the night before. When I stepped to the bar, Eddie recognised me, drew a cerveza and placed a plate of olives before me. It was a redux of the previous evening with soccer on the TV and clientele enjoying Eddie's Sidra antics. Reluctantly I called it an early evening and returned to Hotel Sur, through streets filled with beautiful Andalusians. So much for George's insistance that Saturday night would be dead.

Sunday, 11/10

At 5:45 Sunday morning, the phone rang with our wake up call. A quick shower and we would be on our way. Make the best of any chance to shower now, water is limited on a sailboat.

The friendly desk clerk called a taxi, we stuffed our six pieces of luggage aboard and we were on our way. The train left on time and we were comfortably seated to enjoy the scenery. This was the lowest class train and still it was comfortable and quiet.

At Dos Hermanos station we changed trains. We had to schlep all of the luggage along the platform, down a flight of stairs, through a tunnel, up another flight and back along the platform. As I hefted the huge box onto my back, a young black man on the other platform waved to me, suggesting that I cross the tracks and save the trip down stairs. There were several large signs prohibiting the crossing of the tracks, so rather than risk an encounter with Policia Local, I proceeded in the conventional manner. Three trips later we were on the southbound platform.

George began fretting again. Maybe we are on the wrong platform? We confirmed that this is indeed the correct platform for Cadiz, but that did not satisfy George. I needed to get him to Barbate before he got an ulcer!

Now the black man walked up to me, "I told you to carry the bags across the tracks." Ah, an English speaker. "I was in the train with you from Malaga," he said. He was going to Cadiz and confirmed that we were on the correct platform. He is from Nigeria and lives in Spain where he does construction work. When the train arrived, he helped us with our bags and pointed out a pair of seats together for George and me, then disappeared.

We arrived in Cadiz (Cah-deez) about noon and found the bus station about a block away. The bus doesn't leave until 5:30 and another five hour wait is killing George. I suggest that we leave the large pieces of luggage and take a walk. Perhaps we can find a restaurant to have lunch. "This is Sunday in Spain. Everything is closed. All they do is sit in the park and feed the pigeons." I tell him I'm going to take a walk anyway, and he makes a face but follows.

We weave through old streets to an embankment overlooking the port of Cadiz. This is the Atlantic Ocean. I leap up onto the walkway to se the view. George stays on the street, moaning about something. When I hop back down, George says that a man told him there may be a cantina open on one of the side streets. We head off and sure enough there seems to be life. Here, a cantina with a few men, but we keep walking. We round a corner and the street is full of people, several cantinas and a colorful cart on the corner.

The cart is full of fish, squid and a bowl of tiny shrimp so small that the only way you could eat them is whole, shell on. A tablespoon would contain 20 of these shrimp.

We turn the corner and enter a large plaza with thousands of people celebrating a beautiful afternoon. There are plastic chairs and tables with umbrellas and cantinas to serve food and beer. There is an inflatable trampoline at one end of the plaza and beautiful families are laughing as their children bounce. Music fills the air. Young people zoom by on every imaginable brand of motor scooter and occasionally a 250cc crotch rocket. Girls with hair streaming clutch their boyfriend's waists as they screech into the square.

A young lady brings a menu to the table and when she sees me puzzling over it, asks if I'd like one in English. One of George's many tirades was how no country other than the US accommodates another language. In the past three days we have had hoards of people bend over backward to help us with their language, speak in our language and provide written menus, instructions and directions in English. Perhaps one can not vote in English in Spain, but it seems to me there is more multi-lingual accommodation in Europe than in the US. Granted, it is driven by economic expedience rather than fiat, but it is accommodation nonetheless.

We enjoy a San Miguel in the afternoon sun. I ordered fried octopus prepared with delicious spices and salt. George ordered paella and salad that arrived in such a huge quantity he was astounded. I helped him with the salad. The Spanish sure do like to add canned corn to their salads.

Although it was only nearing 3PM, George was anxious to get back to the bus station. Wouldn't want to be late or have the bus leave without him! Haven't you noticed that every single bus, train, taxi have been right on time? One thing these people are is punctual. That of course includes closing almost all businesses from 2PM - 5:30PM each day for siesta, but at least they punctually close and open them.

So we head back to the station agonizingly early. On the way I notice a little bakery and use it as an excuse to leave him alone at the bus station. I never made it to the bakery but went back to the plaza with the happy people.

At 5:30PM we boarded the bus for Barbate. The ride took us through beautiful coastal towns. One cliffside pueblo was especially appealing with breathtaking views of the valley.

We arrived at the bus station in Barbate at about 6:30, retrieved our mass of luggage and entered the terminal. This was the first of many encounters with the helpful clerk at the bus depot. This man speaks not a word of English, but at every meeting he went to incredible lengths to help us. This evening, after a torturously frustrating exchange that showed his incredible patience, we were able to convey that we needed to find the marina. About 2 miles from the station, he indicated. We can not walk with all this luggage, we signed. He offered to call a taxi. "Taxi" is a universal word. (Actually, I never tried it in France" the French may pretend not to understand")

The telephone line to the taxi was busy. He tried again, busy" he tried again, busy" he finally got through. "Cinco minutos", he said, holding up five fingers.

"Gracias, muchos gracias."

The taxi arrived and again we had to tell the driver in sign language and broken Spanish that we needed to find our boat at the marina. "Marina del barco. His blank stare told us we were not getting through. "Barco's?" I said, pointing in the direction the clerk had indicated. "Si," he replied.

We piled the baggage in his tiny Renault and he darted off. We found ourselves at a small marina filled with commercial fishing boats. George thought he saw a catamaran among them, but no. I said, "Sailboat? Barco de aero? eh" barco" I held up my hand like a sail and blew upon it. He smashed his foot to the floor and the little Renault sped off along a row of garages that were used for many different businesses" slaughtering fish, repairing motors and fishing equipment, etc. In less than a minute we rounded a corner and saw masts. "There's the boat!"

The boat was dark and it looked empty so I walked along the concrete pier to the edge of the dock. The tide was very low and the cat sat far below us. Just then, Ned stepped out of the cabin and shouted, "Where have you been? We just got back from the bus station."

Now safe at the boat, George's attitude completely changed. He relaxed and joked with Ned and hugged Betty. Ned made us a gin and tonic and we sat in the cabin chatting.

Betty, in her late 60's (maybe even 70's) had been sailing with Ned for three months. They had visited Italy, France, Elba (the island of Napoleon's exile) and the coast of Spain. After three months she was ready to head back to Florida, but George tried to convince her to sail with us to the Canaries. As events would tell, she wisely declined.

Now we had to discuss a glitch in our plans. The life raft needed for the Atlantic crossing had still not arrived. It was being held at customs, 700 miles east of here. The next day, Monday 11/11, Ned was going to catch a train from Cadiz to Barcelona, get the raft and catch a night train back to Cadiz, then bus back to Barbate" if it all worked out. I was mildly concerned. I had business commitments and needed to be back in the US by 12/15.

Monday 11/11

After breakfast, George and Betty planned to go to Seville. We went to the bus station and the friendly clerk was helpful again. Through sign language we deciphered schedules which were different from those posted. Too late to depart today, they delayed till tomorrow. I planned to go alone to Gibraltar on Tuesday and Ned was presently boarding a bus for Cadiz.

I went on my way to explore Barbarte. I strolled through quiet old streets, passed stone and concrete homes and businesses. I found myself at a bight that formed a beautiful beach on the Atlantic Ocean. Along the beach was a 200' wide stone walkway and retaining wall. Behind the walkway were two and three story apartments, as homey as any in the U.S. Most of these apartments had a nice restaurant, cafe or bar on the first floor, facing the beach. During the day children played soccer, women walked baby carriages and couples sipped coffee under awnings. And I sat under an awning, writing this essay. I watched the sun drop into the Atlantic, saw Morocco across the straight and I was ready to amble back to the boat.

On the way I spotted a small restaurant and bar where men were loudly playing dominoes. My curiosity drew me inside where I ordered a cerveza and scanned food in platters behind glass.

The men at the two dominos tables began to shout, one slammed a domino onto the table with a loud crack and everyone laughed. The man got up, ordered a shot of rum, tossed it down with one gulp and went back to the table.

I got up to use the men's room. It was unusually clean for a Spanish bar but it only had a urinal. I guess they were saying, "This is a neighborhood bar. If you need to do more than pass water, go home."

I resumed my seat at the bar and summoned the proprietor. "Por favor, comidas?" "Si," he replied.

Perdon me Espanole. Hable Espanole muy pocito."

"Si," he smiled, and added a sentence or two that I interpreted as, "It's ok."

I pointed to several dishes and indicated that I would like some. One was a very appetizing rice dish with large chunks of sausage. The barkeep said something in Spanish and held his hands up, making a circle like a plate, meeting thumb to thumb and index finger to index finger. I interpreted it as meaning, "Do you want a small plate of that?"

I said, "Si, por favor."

I didn't get what I thought I was ordering. He soon returned and placed a marinated squid before me. He cut tomatoes into 1/4s and added onions and a tasty dressing. Oh, what the heck. I ate the squid and it was pretty darn good. All in all, a nice meal, a soccer game on TV and boisterous Spanish domino players, two beers and a squid all for under $5.00.

Happy and fed, I returned to the boat for a night's sleep.

Tuesday, 11/12

In the morning I caught the bus to Gibraltar and the clerk made sure I boarded the correct one. The schedule showed that a bus departed Barbarte at 7:45 with a change at La Barca, then a change at Ageceris for La Linea.

I wrote on a pad, the following:

?7,45 Barbarte -> La Barca

Nuevo autobus La Barca -> Algeceris?

He shook his head, "No," and wrote:

7,15 - Barbarte - La Barca

7,45 La Barca - Algeceris

Then he waved his hand before me and wrote:

7,30 Barbarte - Algeceris

Huh! There was a bus directly to Algeceris and it was not posted on the schedule. I pointed to the direct route and said, "Si. Por favor, uno."

I paid the $4.10 fare and he handed me a receipt. Then he indicated with a hand gesture that I should sit in the seat beside his window and he would let me know when the bus was ready.

I sat patiently for 1/2 an hour, then at the scheduled time I saw a bus leaving the garage. I leaped up with an excited expression on my face and looked from the bus to the ticket agent. He held up his hand, with his index finger extended as if chastising a small child and waved it slowly from side to side while shaking his head. He then pointed back to the chair. About five minutes later a bus pulled up to the front of the building. I looked to the agent and he nodded, "Si," and waved me on my way with a smile.

Buses in Spain are quite comfortable and convenient. This one took a route along the Atlantic coast, stopping at several small villages. Some of these villages were in coastal mountain towns and the big bus zipped through old narrow streets that paid homage to the driver's skill.

To Spain's credit, the hills along the coast are dotted with wind farms; arrays of 50 - 100 windmills generating clean electricity. A significant portion of Spain's generating capacity is derived from this renewable source. What will it take the U.S. to make such a commitment?

The bus took me to the city of Algeceris, across the bay from Gibraltar, where I changed buses for La Linea, The Line.

The Line. The demarcation on a narrow isthmus that separates Spain from the Brittish colony of Gibraltar. One week before my visit there was held a referendum on sharing sovereignty with Spain. Gibraltarians overwhelmingly rejected the idea and a profusion of Union Jacks and Gibraltarian banners flew from apartment windows, attesting to the view. There was nary a Spanish flag in sight.

Anyone who has ever looked at a map of the area can understand the strategic importance of this fortress. Yet, until you actually stand upon the rock, it is merely textbook. Only eight miles to North Africa, plainly in sight except in the most inclement weather, no vessel enters or leaves the Med without the close scrutiny of British forces. Although the U.S. remains publicly silent on the issue of sovereignty, it is plain that they prefer its control firmly in the hands of our reliable ally. While Spain is a close friend and ally, its ability and willingness to administer such important turf does not have strong historical argument. The importance of this rock in geo-political terms can not be underestimated.

As one enters Gibraltar from La Linea, there are striking similarities to entering Tijuana from the U.S. A flash of an American Passport gets you through the gauntlet of customs officials and you walk onto the runway.

Yes, the runway! A military and civilian airport runway. The isthmus, the only available spot, has been converted to an airport. Automobile and pedestrian traffic cross the airstrip until the rare aircraft approaches and the traffic lights signal stop. As you walk across the strip, the rock looms ahead.

The apartments at the base of the rock give first indication of British encampment. To reach old Gibraltar, the central city, one passes through a tunnel bored into the rock that opens into an inviting plaza. Once inside, you are in Britain. The streets, the houses, the pubs all exude the crown. Gibraltar is the Hong Kong of Europe. Free enterprise and blue blood reign.

It was a little after 9AM when I entered the plaza and I immediately found a shop to have coffee. The proximity to Spain still affords a good cup. Only one other patron was in the cafe and I took the opportunity to ask directions. She was a Spaniard from La Linea working in another Gibraltarian cafe. She was happy to give directions and recommended I take the cable car to the top of the rock.

With a small map in hand, I strolled the streets of Gibraltar town, occasionally stopping to look in a shop or inspect an interesting structure. The map showed a section called "Irish Town" and my heritage made it a section hard to resist. Now, there was no difference from the main street except that a few pubs had Irish names, but I imagine in the past it must have been a Mickey bario.

Back on the main street I passed the courthouse and other government buildings, including "The Convent". This former home for Catholic nuns, now appropriated as a government building, is guarded by a crisply uniformed British soldier, armed with a rifle, standing at attention beside the door. A few hundred yards further was the base for the cable car.

The ticket was 12 Euros, round trip and included access to St. Michael's Cave. The view from the car was spectacular, if dizzying, and my head swooned and my knees shook until it arrived at the top. Halfway up there was a stop if passengers wish to explore the side of the rock. When the car reached this point it slammed" well, maybe just bumped" the wooden landing, shaking the car and causing many to gasp.

At the top, the wind howled. Of course, there is a gift shop and restaurant. I looked over the railing at the Med and Africa and the impressive view of the Spanish coast. I then began the mile long walk to St. Michael's Cave.

As one walks along the narrow path, each view is interesting and steep cliffs make you pay attention to your footing. Yes, there are handrails and I gripped them tightly.

Barbary apes infest the upper rock and the path to St. Michael's. Visitors are admonished to avoid feeding them. Nevertheless, these simians have become so used to humans that you can get quite near for a photo.

I had not known that huge sections of the rock are hollow. Stalactites and stalagmites form spires of many shades and colors and giant rooms fill the rock. One such room is an auditorium with stadium seating where a recording describes the caves, how they formed and historical events. For instance, during WWII these caves were prepared as a hospital and the stadium room was used as a theater for plays and concerts.

Back in town, I enjoyed a nice lunch and Bass Ale, then at 3PM walked back to La Linea to catch the bus to Barbarte.

Wednesday 11/13

To remain on schedule, we were supposed to leave port today, arrive in the canaries 11/15 and depart for Trinidad 11/17. Ned still had not returned from Barcelona with the life raft. It was hoped that he would be on today's 1PM bus.

Betty, George and I walked into town in late morning, had a coffee in the one nice, clean restaurant and crossed the street to the bus station. The 1PM bus arrives and first we did not see him, then Ned's white head appeared through the window. Things were looking up.

We went around to the luggage doors and there was the bright orange life raft. Ned and I hefted the bulky, 80 lb package to the garage door and rested it on the street.

"We have to find the police station," Ned stated. "They have to confirm that this is leaving the country or I will have to pay duty. The police have to inspect it and sign these documents," he said, waving a ream of paper.

"I know where to find the police station," I said.

"You do?" he said, eyes raised.

"Yeah, I was arrested last night" No, no, just kidding. I passed it while exploring."

We carried the raft across the street, weaving between zooming scooters and placed it on the step of the nice restaurant. Betty and George took a table for lunch while Ned and I set out for Policia Local.

We found it quickly and stepped inside to describe in sign language and broken Spanish, our predicament. The officer in charge inspected the form and told us that we were in the wrong office. We needed to go to the Guardia Civil" the civil guard.

This is the first time I realized there was a difference. We had seen similar Citroen hatchbacks roaming the streets and assumed they were the same police. Heck, they all carried guns.

The officer in charge shouted something to a rather corpulent cop, the image of a NYC flatfoot, who in rapid Spanish and hand gestures gave us directions to Guardia Civil. We decided to first have lunch, then locate the Guard.

As we returned to the restaurant along Avenida del Generalisimo, Ned saw approaching a white Citroen. "Guardia Civil", he cried and bolted acroiss the street to flag it down. On the side of the car was written, "Policia Local". Dang, back to square one.

But to my surprise, the two young police were eager to help. They pulled the tiny cruiser onto the sidewalk and got out to decipher the forms. These two officers in their late 20's were the tallest Spaniards I had met on the trip. The pair were handsome young men, over six feet tall and imposing in their military type uniforms, complete with heavy black army boots and gun belts. However, their smiles were friendly and they patiently listened to our inadequate Spanish.

When Ned pointed across the street to the huge orange canvass package on the restaurant step, they asked if we had a car. The officer held up his hands as if grasping a steering wheel and asked, "Auto?" "Taxi," Ned replied, and they flew into action.

One officer stopped traffic while the other jumped into the car to back it across the street. In front of the restaurant, the officer opened the hatchback of the little Citroen, rearranged a bucket and a box and waved for us to bring the raft.

Inside the restaurant, all eyes were on the commotion in the street and the police conversing with the gringos. When the two officers moved quickly to the raft and whipped it into the car, the looks turned to astonishment, mine included.

Ned got in one side of the back seat and the cop waved me into the other. I indicated that I would remain to have lunch with my friends. The cop waved "OK, placed his huge frame in the tiny car and zipped off.

I sat beside George and ordered carne y patata (french fries with chunks of stew beef, deliciously seasoned) y un cerveza. Ordering food and drink in Spanish is easy, and they always bring a plate of tasty Spanish olives.

The lunchtime was spent in conversation and jokes about the reaction of the restaurant clientele to the police encounter and Ned's ride in the back seat of a cruiser. Twenty to thirty minutes later Ned was back. He was smiling and laughing, "It's all done! They took me to Guardia Civil, explained to the clerk what they had in the trunk, he looked at the papers and," Ned licked his thumb, paged through some imaginary form, "stamped them." Ned stamped his imaginary stamper on each imaginary page.

"Then they took me to the boat and carried" they carried" the raft down the long dock and heaved the heavy thing into the cockpit. They swung it up there like it was nothing."

"On the way back up the dock they ran into their El Capitan who was there boating with a friend. They explained to him why they were there and introduced me with hand shakes. Then they brought me back the two miles to this restaurant."

We all laughed and commented again about the wonderful, friendly Spaniards. American cops are usually too jaded to care about such trivialities and always too busy, even if they wanted to help. I could only imagine them saying, "You gotta move that thing. I don't care what you do with it, but ya can't leave it there." Here in a small Spanish town the police are true public servants.

Thursday, 11/14

Today the rains began. Heavy rain with wind, rare at this time of year, I am told. Even if our stores were complete, even if the last member of the crew was present, the weather would not allow departure.

Michael, the final member of the crew would arrive this evening. Betty had departed for Madrid in the morning and Ned, George and I spent the day tidying up and making a list of items to purchase at the local supermarket.

Canned vegetables, canned meats, eggs and cold cereal, fruits, dates, figs and any other non-perishable was most important. Milk is sold everywhere in sealed cartons that require no refrigeration until opened. The shelf life is months long. We would do our shopping first thing Friday morning and try to depart by noon.

We had a nice dinner and shared a bottle of good, red Vino de Mesa, table wine, that cost a whopping 55¢ a bottle. Very nice wines are available for less than a liter of Coke in the States.

At 8:30PM Michael arrived. Among his first words were, "Please excuse my poor English." This apology was unnecessary because his English was quite good, but over the next week we laughed together about diffferent American English words, meaning and usage.

Within a half hour, Michael suggested that we go out for a drink, so he and I took a fifteen minute walk to the closest watering hole. Over cerveza I got to know this interesting Austrian, transplanted to Sweden, living in Spain on a 33 foot sailboat that he constructed.

A very young 60, only white hair hints at his age. His eclectic taste in music ranges from Arabic folk to American hard rock to U2. He is also well versed in the classics, evidenced when I pondered a crossword clue and he came up with the answer, J. S. Bach.

He asked me to explain the word, "Punk" that he heard on a "Guns and Roses" CD. He asked, "What means 'honk'?" I told him the sound of a car horn, but he seemed confused. He had me listen to the CD on his portable and we laughed at how confusing sounds can be.

At the cantina we talked about the soccer on TV. It seems that there is always a game being played somewhere in Spain. I have seldom turned on a TV without seeing soccer.

On the Sea

Friday, 11/15

More rain this morning. The whole boat is damp from the moist air and several articles of clothing were already saturated. Oh, well, it's a boat.

The rain eased mid-morning and the four of us hit the supermarket filling two carts with supplies. Michael and I hired a cab to bring the stores the two miles to the marina. The taxi arrived, a Mercedes, and we filled the trunk and back seat. On the ride back, the driver and I had a conversation in my broken Spanish about the weather, the quality of Mercedes, the beauty of Barbate" I was amazed at how easy it was to chat with these friendly folk.

At the marina, the driver helped us unload the bags and pile them at the edge of the dock. I gave him $10 Euros for a $7 Euro fare. The driver was so happy with the tip that he hugged me. Mike and I stashed the supplies in the boat and met the others at a restaurant for lunch.

The rains of the past few days had left us moist, but we were in dire need to depart. George and I had return flights from Port of Spain, Trinidad on 12/15. At 4:14PM with moderate winds and clearing skies, we motored out of the marina and departed Barbarte. An hour later, as we cleared Trafalgar light, in sight of Cadiz, we hoisted sail and tacked toward the shipping lanes of the Straight of Gibraltar.

The wind was out of the southwest, the direction of the Canaries, and we were beating into it. We looked forward to an expected wind shift, but meanwhile the boat made a steady 5 - 9 knots with a chilly wind on our faces.

We quickly arrived at the very busy shipping lane. It is easy to determine the direction of ships, even far off, in daylight. Night sailing is a different matter. At a distance, several ships can blend into one and their direction and speed is difficult to discern. As they near you can see the different lights they display, but when several are in the vicinity a small boat must maneuver carefully.

The first such occasion occurred of the coast of Morocco. Two ships were closing behind us and another was closing from the port bow. Two others were several miles ahead to starboard, on a path to pass our bow, right to left. In the night we watched their lights move on the dark sea.

The port ship was nearest but its speed and direction was not clear. We monitored all the traffic for a half hour to see if one would move away and give us a clear heading but the circle seemed to close tighter. The wind limited our ability to change direction. Ned saw an opportunity to skirt right of the ship ahead if we motored. We fired the Hondas and blasted through at least a mile from the nearest ship, yet we did not feel comfortable until the ships behind turned west and faded from view.

Once through we killed the engines and began beating again. The wind picked up and the boat began to fly through four to five foot seas. We held a steady 9 - 10 knots (1 knot = 1.15 mile per hour) and allowed the autopilot to steer in the darkness. The electronic autopilot holds the compass course entered into the instrument. Course changes of one or ten degrees can be made with the press of a button.

Ned and I kept watch from 6PM to midnight. We turned watch over to Mike and George and I withdrew to my cabin in the port bow, dead tired. Below deck the rolling sensation disoriented me and to be safe, I ate two Bonine tablets that Dr. Torner had prescribed. Ned and Mike were not so lucky and both suffered mal de mer for two days. Mike never returned to his cabin, choosing to sleep in main cabin where motion was less pronounced.

Saturday, 11/16

Through the night, the seas picked up and I got little sleep as the boat heaved through waves. At 6AM George roused me for morning watch. By this time the winds had eased to only a few knots, but the seas remained high at 10 feet and coming from every direction. We were going nowhere. Ned and I discussed the situation. I suggested that we turn west to make for the Portugal current and better winds, but at 8:30 Ned decided to return to Barbarte, less than 100 miles away.

This would end my trip. I had to get back to Florida by December 15^th and there was no telling when we would be able to depart again. We turned about with seas still pounding us, but 5 knot winds at our back. I was extremely disappointed to abandon my first attempt to sail across an ocean. I think back at how different the experience would have been, sailing with Philip Przyborowski or Don Wigston. Each would have planned better and left nothing to question on safety. My next crossing will be with better crew who I trust and know.

I was disappointed when we turned the boat around. I made some coffee and we reached toward Spain. Reaching is much easier than beating against the wind and certainly can change an attitude. Two hours of reaching, with the seas easing and the sun shining put a smile on our faces. Then something happened.

At about 10:30 the wind began to shift again. It shifted about 100 degrees and began blowing at 10 knots as predicted the day before. We were beating once again. Now Ned decided to resume our course for the Canaries. I didn't object, I wanted to go. That was the reason I was there. The winds were favorable for a reach to Lanzarote Island, the Canary Islands.

I took a nap until 2PM, the Bonine doing its job to settle my stomach as the boat rolled through 8 foot seas. The powerful catamaran was now flying through the ocean and we spent the next several hours with our speed above ten knots.

I took over watch at 2PM and found that the wind had shifted again. Checking the chart, I determined that it would be better to reach northwest for several hours, get to the Portuguese current and turn south for Lanzarote, 493 miles away according to the GPS.

The boat really liked this point of sail. I was at the helm for several hours, cracking off speeds of 10, 12 then 14 knots and peaking at 19.2! The boat was loaded with 400 liters of water and supplies for a month of sailing for four people. This version was built with a mast ten feet shorter than standard so Ned could get the boat under a bridge in Cape Coral, Florida. Imagine the performance of the racing version!

The wind eased a bit in mid afternoon and we reached easily at 8 - 10 knots. The seas were calming, with rollers at 4 - 6 feet.

At about 4:30PM Ned and I were talking. He mentioned that the mainsheet fitting had twice come loose and he was going to check and retighten it. Having the mainsheet come loose would be no fun with the boom swinging wildly. It would be hard to get under control, even heading into the wind.

Ned checked the fitting and tightened it a half turn. I sat happily at the helm watching a beautiful rainbow to the north. A Lear jet zoomed low over us, twice to inspect the boat. Pilots always seem to love fast sailboats.

Suddenly a bang! I noticed the starboard cap shroud, the cable that supports the mast on the right side of the boat, was swinging free, whipping wildly at arms length! "Shit, it's the shroud! THE MAST!" I shouted. "Grab a bolt, a screwdriver, anything to get that pinned again." Ned reached into the tool box in the aft compartment to search for a bolt while Mike, who was wakened from his sleep in the main cabin, held the shroud to prevent it from causing injury. I held the boat on port tack to keep the wind on the left side of the sails. As long as I could keep the wind on the left side of the boat, the mast would remain standing. Should the wind die or change direction, the mast would come crashing down.

The boat climbed over rolling seas and surfed down waves. Each time we reached the crest of a wave and the boat tipped forward, I could feel the mast start to go over. Then, as the boat hit the bottom, the wind would catch the sail and I could feel the mast snap back in place. Though the movement was probably less than an inch, it was heart stopping. I corrected course about ten degrees to force more wind against the mast.

"Ned! Get the spinnaker halyard and bring it to the cleat, starboard-aft," I called. "That will give a little support to the mast while we work this out." Ned retrieved the halyard and lashed it to the cleat. I released the mast rotation control and winched tension to the halyard. Finally Ned found a bolt and he and Mike struggled to pin down the shroud. This accomplished, we had time to analyze the situation.

Apparently, the cotter pin retaining the clevis that held the shroud had fallen out. Now a bolt and nut held it in place. We tacked and I asked Michael to check the bolt, "Has it bent?"

"Just a little," he replied.

After a few minutes I looked at it and the bolt had a significant bend. I was very concerned that it would give way and we would lose the mast. I told Ned that we needed to take care of it. I was also becoming aware that this boat was thin on replacement parts. I suggested that we turn for Rabat or Casablanca in Morocco to make repairs. Ned did not want to go to Morocco and decided for the second time that day to return to Barbate. I jibed the boat and with the wind on port tack, we reached for Spain.

The sea was moderate at 6 - feet and the big cat surfed most of the way back to Barbate. We sped back almost 80 miles on port tack. The last 20 miles the wind shifted and rather than tack, we fired the Hondas and motored, reaching port at 4:30 Sunday morning.

Sunday, 11/17

At 10:30 I awoke and got my first hot shower in days. I had a tough decision. If I left this afternoon, I could catch the train for Madrid and use the second half of the round trip ticket I purchased to get here. I could catch an afternoon bus and an evening train, but darn I wanted to sail across the Atlantic. OK, one more chance.

On Sunday in Spain there are no business open, so Ned and I tried to find someone at the marina who had a clevis we could buy. After several unsuccessful attempts, a German cruiser suggested we ask a Swiss with a boat in dry dock. The Swiss wasn't there, but the guy on the next boat came over to see what was up.

Ned greeted him in Spanish with, "Hola" but he replied in an Australian accent, "English."

He had a big smile that showed his four top front teeth were missing. He wore dirty clothes, a very old wide brimmed canvass hat and a scraggly gray beard that hinted at having been trimmed to a moustache and goatee in the last month. The homeliest pit bull ambled up next to him, tits drooping as if she just gave birth.

The codger thought he may have a clevis on his old steel ketch. The full keeled boat was propped up on wooden planks in the parking lot. He took a ladder from the Swiss's boat, explaining, "We share this, ya?" He sprinkled his orations liberally with "ya" or "Yes". Each sentence was punctuated with these words, intonation rising like a question.

The dog was under his feet as he toted the ladder. "She's 'avin' a false pregnancy, yeah?" He propped the ladder against the rust bucket of a boat and stepped back to examine the clevis in Ned's hand. The dog looked up at him and he said, "What do you want, Chica? Oh, go on" yes" go on" go on up, ya?"

The dog put her paws on the bottom rung and began to climb the ladder. "Well, if she wants to go up, ya? She can bloody well climb the steps herself, ya?"

"Can she climb back down," I asked.

"Well, she can, ya" but I carry her, mostly, yes?" He followed her up the ladder then stopped half way to chat about the weather. This man is a talker and he had an audience of six ears, Ned, myself and Michael. He was not going to miss the opportunity to fill these ears with the sound of his voice. "I live in Africa, ya? and I have a daughter" Finally he continued his climb and descended into the cabin. A few minutes later he reappeared with a plastic milk jug filled with parts. He stepped to the ladder and the dog followed. "OK, ya? get on, yes?" The dog gingerly stepped across the void at the top of the ladder, placing her paws on his shoulder. He grabbed her butt and pulled her aboard, then climbed down with his friend.

"She learned to climb that ladder herself, ya? One day I was asleep, yes? and she was outside, ya? When I woke up she was asleep beside me, ya? I thought that someone had brought her aboard, ya? and I don't like anyone going on my boat without permission, yeah? Then the next day she was in the boat again, ya? Then I saw her climb the ladder, ya?"

The codger handed Ned the jug and he began searching for a clevis. "You're on that catamaran, yes?" This is the first sentence he spoke where the "yes?" actually fit. "I've got a catamaran at my place up in Portugal, ya? Got a great deal on her, yes? Bought it from a charter business, ya? it's an American Morgan, ya?"

"I didn't know that Morgan built a catamaran," I said.

"They built 24 of them, ya? all for charter. I got this one, yes? for $15,000. It has two new Yanmars, yes? a new generator, a water maker. I couldn't turn down the deal, ya? I thought he had stolen the papers, ya? and was trying to sell the boat, yes? but it all turned out to be legitimate, yes?"

"Where in Africa do you live," I asked.

"Cap Verd, ya?" I couldn't make it out. He began rambling on about how he and his brothers own a dive business and I discerned that he meant The Cape Verdes Islands.

"Cap Verd is nice, ya? and I have to go to the US in a month, ya? 'cause I own 1/3 of an island, ya? and the Moorings business wants to buy it, ya? and put in a charter marina, yes? Cap Verd is getting real popular with Americans, ya? and British and Germans, ya? since the Russians and Cubans left. The Russians went in there when they went into most of West Africa, yes? and they gave it to the Cubans in a deal in the 80's, ya? and that fell apart, ya? faster than a cake, yes? 'cause the Cubans can't even run Cuba, yes? So this Dutch guy who was there before the Russians, ya? came back with his son, ya? who became the first president with his father as the right hand man, ya? So why do you need that clevis, ya?"

Ned explained how the cap shroud failed. "You know, the rig gave way on my catamaran, ya? I was flying the spinnaker and the shroud popped, ya? and the pole came around and hit me and that is how I lost my teeth, ya?" He grabbed Ned's hand and rubbed it across the top of his head. "WOW!" Ned exclaimed.

"It's a platinum plate, ya? The pole broke my skull, ya? me jaw and all my teeth, ya? I lay on the deck unconscious, ya? for three days, ya? until an American rescue crew found me, yes? Their navy was doing maneuvers with the Spanish in the Atlantic, ya? and they spotted my cat, ya? all the sails tore up, yes? And they dropped a rescue crew on my boat, yes? Well, my dog was on the boat and the captain told the sailor to stay in the water, ya? and they'd take her out from the air, yes? You know how pit bulls have a bad name in the US, ya? But the sailor said she was waggin' her tail, ya? and he went aboard. The only time she got to barking was when they were hoisting me up, ya? She hadn't eaten in three days, ya?

Well the Americans air lifted me here to Rota, ya? Right down the coast at the American navy base, yes? and fixed me up. Put that plate in my head, ya? and wired my jaw and I had a broken cheek, ya? and a broken arm and ribs, ya? I was in that navy hospital for over a month, ya?"

"And they fixed my catamaran, too, yes? They towed her to the Canaries, yes? and replaced the rigging, ya? The Yanmar engines have a hand crank back up start, ya? and they rebuilt that, ya? with a better one that you crank 15 times, ya? and it starts the motor, yes? And they trued my compass, ya? and they gave me 150 charts, yes? Said they were out of date for their purposes, ya? but good enough for me, ya? still good to navigate harbors, just not for shooting missiles, ya? They repaired all my instruments, ya? and cleaned the boat good as new, ya?

"I had insurance, ya? and I asked the Admiral at Rota, this young guy, about 35 years old, ya? how much it cost, yes? but he said it was a rescue at sea, ya? no charge, yes? A lot of people talk bad about Americans, ya? and I have been one, ya? But never again, ya? They treated me like a king, ya? I got a questionnaire from the pentagon, ya? to fill out about my stay in the hospital, ya? I can't ell you how much they did for me, ya? I go back there about once a month, ya? to see the Admiral and to say thanks, ya? and I always bring a bottle, ya?"

"And then they found out who my father was, ya? and they invited me to a formal party, ya? with a tuxedo, ya?" My mind reeled when I pictured him in a tuxedo, no teeth, at a navy function. Maybe that is why it looked like he had shaved once.

"Yes, my father worked on the Manhattan Project, ya? The CIA told them, ya? because they had some questions for me after they searched my boat, yes? I had a few passports, ya? and I'm married to an Arab, yes? and they wanted to know why a Jew was married to an Arab, ya? And they wanted to know why I was in Afghanistan a week before the Russians arrived, ya? I told them I never consulted with the Russians as to their schedule, ya? but Afghanistan has the largest underground lake in the world, ya? and I was there with some Germans, ya? taking them diving, ya?

"And they said, 'You were in Lebanon when the barracks was bombed', ya? And I was, ya?" so they had some questions, ya? but when they were satisfied I was no spy, ya? they invited me to their parties, yes?

"What's your name," I asked.

"Roi Raul Reichenstein, ya? but you can call me Roy, ya?"

"Are you Australian?"

"Romanian. But when I was six my father took us to America to work on the Manhattan Project, ya? After the war, ya? they asked us where we'd like to live, ya? We could get citizenship in Canada, US, Great Britain or Australia, ya? So we took Australia, yes? But I've lived in South Africa, Lebanon, Germany, England, and Cap Verd, ya?

Unfortunately, Roy did not have the clevis we needed. We resigned to wait until Monday morning when the shops opened.

Monday, 11/18

Up bright and early, we met Roy to help us find a chandlery. Ned and he visited several shops where Roy had acquaintances while George and I bought a few food items we thought we'd like.

By ten o'clock we had returned to find that the part had to be made, no one had a clevis of that size. Roy took Ned to a shop and the machinist turned a clevis in no time. A Clevis. One clevis, not two. Not one and a spare"

Repairs made, we were ready to depart Barbate once again. We checked the weather at the yacht club and got printouts for our route. After a stop at the fuel dock, we motored out of the harbor at 12:25PM.

I suggested that we reach west for the Portuguese current but Ned wanted to cross the Straight of Gibraltar shipping lane in daylight and head southwest. The seas were 1 3 feet with a light wind out of the southeast. Indeed, the day was quite pleasant sailing.

We moved into the area marked on the chart as the shipping lane and there was significant traffic, yet it was much easier to monitor in daylight. We sailed along at about 6 knots. George slept. George slept unless he was on watch. Sometimes he slept for 20 hours in a day. Needless to say, he is not the gregarious type.

Through the afternoon and into the early evening the sailing was delightful but in the night the weather turned heavy once again. The wind shifted forward and like the first attempt we were beating to weather. The seas grew to between 7 and 10 feet and the wind blew 15 - 20 knots. The boat cut through this at 10 knots of boat speed but our angle to the wind slowed our VMG (velocity made good, actual distance toward our mark) to about 5 knots or sometimes less.

Sleep was out of the question. Lying on a mattress in a berth was an effort. Each time the boat hit a wave, every 5 seconds or so, a tremendous noise reverberated the cabin and the boat heaved up and down. My body flew into the air several inches off the mattress, then slapped back down. My body felt like a water balloon that some giant was tossing up and down. On each down stroke I could feel the skin on my gut flare out like the floppy plastic water balloon. As I was tossed into the air I could feel it bulge my belly out. If it had not been for Dr. Torner's Bonine pills I am sure I would have been sea sick. In mid evening we took a reef in the mainsail, but this did nothing to reduce the violent motion of the boat. Night watch was a soggy experience, but the boat never seemed to be out of control.

Tuesday 11/19

By early morning the seas had grown even higher with 10 - 15 foot waves and 25 - 38 knot winds. We took a second reef in the main and rolled the jib to 1/3 of its full size. Winds remained on the nose and our progress was very slow. Heavy rains began making watch duty highly unpleasant. Rain seeped in under any foul weather gear and all clothing was soaking wet. Indeed, my cabin became more of a wet locker.

At nine AM we heard a faint distress call from the sailboat, Animas. Then, for the next half hour, an Arabic sounding voice, perhaps Moroccan navy, tried to contact the boat. "Sailing vessel Animas" Sailing vessel Animas"," the voice kept repeating, each time more urgently. "Sailing vessel Animas"

About this same time, a few hundred miles to the north, a Russian oil tanker was making world headlines as it broke apart and began spreading thousands of barrels of fuel oil across the Atlantic. Had we known what we were in for, we would have certainly delayed departure. These were hazardous seas but little did we know, the worst was yet to come.

At 11AM the rain stopped and the seas eased by half and we hoped the worst was behind us. The weather forecasts of just a day ago called for force 2 or 3 winds out of the southeast. We were still waiting. Our course was now west and sometimes north of west and our VMG was a mere 1 - 1.5 kts.

At about 2PM the winds eased somewhat and we shook out one of the reefs and unfurled the jib. The boat was sailing very fast though the swells remained high. At times the swells reached twenty feet and the sensation was incredible. When the boat reached the top of a swell you could see a huge distance. From the cockpit you could look down the slope of the wave and into an enormous bowl of water. The boat would ski down the side of the bowl and you would find yourself looking up a mountain of water. There was an incredible amount of spray and the waves appeared ready to break over you, but suddenly you were lifted again to the top of the swell.

Later, after a very difficult day, the winds eased more and the rains stopped.

Wednesday 11/20

I had the 2AM - 4AM watch. The winds were light with rolling seas of 8 - 12 feet. We were making 4 - 8 knots, close hauled, 8 miles east of the rhumb line. The watch was uneventful which is a good thing considering the previous day, but it was still cold and damp.

My next watch was 10AM - noon. At least it was day light. The winds and seas are picking up again and our progress is slow. I had hoped that to remain on schedule we would arrive at the Canaries this evening but we were still barely half way there. It began raining again and I retired to my cabin to rest for what was to be a double shift this evening.

The seas grew to a steady 20 feet and the waves were closer together. The boat would sail to the crest of a wave and fly off the side, belly flopping to the water in a tremendous crash of fiberglass hull. The sound was like a fire department shooting its high pressure hose at the boat and occasionally smashing it with the truck. I was sure we were hitting solid objects.

As seas neared 30 feet, waves crashed over the boat and through the hatches to the cockpit. Another poor design is the hatches that can not be locked and sealed in heavy weather. It is a major short coming of this boat and in my opinion an extreme danger. Ian Farrier insists that in an ocean crossing one bolt down the hatches on an F-boat. On the TRT it impossible to do so had one wished. Water washed into the main cabin and down to the hulls in buckets full.

At 2:45PM the winds continued to increase and we rolled up more of the jib.

At 2:55 we took a second reef in the main.

Seas are a steady 30 feet and the winds are howling over 40 knots. Rain is pouring down. These are the worst seas I have ever experienced.

At 4:30, at my urging, Ned called for us to heave to. Winds were topping 50 knots and visibility was zero. Torrential rains stung your face. We rolled the jib to storm size (Ned purchased a storm jib, he just neglected to rig it). We tied the boom to port and lashed down the steering then hunkered down in the main cabin to keep watch. The boat slowed to 1 1/2 knots and luckily drifted to the south. At 9:30PM the winds calmed enough to begin sailing again. Like Captain Ron said, "They come on ya fast and they leave ya fast." Tell Tom Podnar I did not see the Leonid meteor shower; I was a little busy.

One of the pleasant aspects of the sail was the company of Michael, our Austrian/Swede crewmember. He is always pleasant and he laughs easily. He is also a great cook. On this voyage we were only able to cook a few meals, but when Michael did they were excellent. Other times we were lucky to get a tuna fish sandwich.

Thursday 11/21

I took over watch at 7AM with more rain and wind coming directly on the nose. By mid morning winds lightened and shifted slightly making travel easier. The rain stopped and blue skies broke out.

When the weather broke you could see a distinct front of clouds in the sky and in the distance the line of rain. A waterspout, a tornado on the water, formed about two miles west. We tacked for one side and sailed around it. I went to my cabin / wet locker and retrieved several items of clothes. With wooden clothes pins I strung them on the spinnaker sheets to dry.

The wind dried them quickly and I replaced them with another load of laundry. This was beginning to be a very nice day. Just what was needed to make us over confident.

Ned took the helm from me and I went below to get a bag of figs, dates and a few tangerines. I returned to the deck and Ned began a tack when he exclaimed, "We don't have any steering!" I looked over the stern and saw a cable streaming free behind us in the water. The boat is well balanced and we were able to steer it briefly with the sails. I suggested we run a line through the spinnaker sheet blocks and tie it to the rudder controller. With this arrangement I was able to use the lines like a tiller, pulling starboard line to turn right, port to turn left. While I steered, Ned and George fished a rope from the wheel housing to the stern and fastened it to the rudder mechanism. The whole operation took little more than 1/2 hour but it felt like hours!

Again, we were lucky. The weather had cleared just prior to a mechanical failure. Had we been in the worst of the rough weather during the steering failure or the shroud failure the results could have been disastrous.

Once again during tense times Ned showed his true colors, snapping and berating those around him. He shouted orders faster than anyone could respond and god forgive you if you did not find a tool fast enough for him.

After the repair the day turned even more pleasant. The wind moved west and we were able to make 210 degrees, close to course. A sunny warm day is what makes sailing worthwhile. The seas flattened to less than 4 feet and the boat made 10 - 12 knots. A huge group of dolphins joined us, playing tag with the boat and jumping along side. They stayed with us at least an hour and at one time there were at least ten swimming below the bow net, between the catamaran hulls. I could almost reach down and touch them.

These Atlantic dolphin are not as large as Florida's bottlenose, but they are every bit as fast, playful and curious.

Friday 11/22

I had a very nice sleep and began watch at 4AM. The water was like glass a striking difference to the prior week and the boat skimmed smoothly over it. During watch the wind dies and boat speed reduced to 3 knots or less. I fired up a Honda and drove the boat directly toward Lanzarote at 5 to 6 knots.

During the day light wind returned and we sailed at 8 knots, drying the rest of our clothes on the spinnaker sheets. More dolphins joined us and spent most of the day darting around the boat.

Several types of birds also flew by the boat. Everyone knows there are sea birds but when you are hundreds of miles from shore it is a treat to watch them. Also, a flying fish committed suicide, jumping into the cockpit.

Saturday 11/23

On watch 6AM - 8AM. The sun comes up late in the eastern Atlantic this time of year. The winds were light and the boat cruised at 6 - 8 knots. When Michael turned over the watch he pointed out the dim light of a merchant vessel far astern. I watched it for an hour and a half as it closed on us, then moved to starboard and began to pass. As it reached starboard beam, about 400 yards, 90 degrees off our right side, the wind picked up. Out boat promptly accelerated, matching the speed of the ship, 13 - 15 knots. For the next 30 minutes we raced side by side as the dawn broke. When Ned relieved me at 8AM the boat was just moving ahead.

When the sun rose at 8:21 I looked south and could see the mountains of Lanzarote in the dim morning. At 4:50PM we motored into the anchorage of Arrecife and made landfall in the Canaries.

I had just experienced the most exciting sailing adventure of my life. I was conflicted because I wanted to continue on to Trinidad, but I had obligations back home. If I risked continuing I might not make it home until Christmas or later. My partner Andy had been generous and understanding but it was time I helped him with our business. I looked forward to seeing Florida again.

I bought a $600 one way ticket from Arrecife to Miami. It had a 17 hour lay over in Madrid. I took a taxi to a nearby town for dinner and what do you know? I found The Royal Irish Pub. I ordered a Guinness and had a nice conversation with a German and a Brit, both sailors. Then around midnight I took a taxi back to the airport, slept on a bench till morning and caught the 11AM flight for Miami.

I was very happy to arrive back home and the warm greetings I received from my friends made it even better. Andy had taken care of business without a hitch and made some good sales. When I walked into the office in Punta Gorda, Alex had his big smile, Chris and Jerry greeted me with their usual firm handshakes then Chris tackled me and I knew I was welcomed home. Jennifer Nash and Jack Duggan welcomed me back and wanted to know all about the trip. And of course, mom and dad was my first stop, the best parents one could wish for" It's good to be back home.

I CAN'T WAIT TO DO THAT AGAIN!

Crazy Captain Gunboat Willy

Growled out his commands

And all the able seamen

Clicked their heels and swore

they would protect the noble ship

in peace time and in war

And they danced a jig

until the dawn

Sang a loyal sailor's song

Drank a pot of steamin' rum

Did all the things that loyal sailors do

Captain Bill expressed great glee!

All the things he had planned

Were made to go his way

All the fares he had collected

And salted away

Made his lips turn in a smile

Just then

Luke the rat from down b'low

called to Gun Boat Bill

he said

"Listen to those mad men wail

they've been at sea for ninety days

without the sight of land

No, it doesn't look so good to me.

No, it doesn't look so good at all."

The Captain pondered

What the rat had said

Till he could think of nothing more

Then he threw his crew

Into the foamin' sea

At least a thousand miles from shore

And he danced a jig until the dawn

Sang a loyal Captain's song

Drank a pot of steamin' rum

Did all the things that loyal Captains do

The rat looked hard at Gun Boat Bill

And he said in a serious style

As he leaped into the water

"Don't believe"

Now don't believe"

Don't believe everything that you hear"

Lowell George