Part 4. The Mad Dash
It’s true. It was time to leave…
So, you get the picture right? Dashed expectations of a long awaited trip to the long imagined Nirvana of Milos, too long tied up in one place, too much wind, too many eejuts in boats (and we may well count ourselves in this category), had led to a certain level of tension aboard the Goode Shippe Gamecocke. In fact, so much so that the crew were revolting, and not just because of a lack of showerage. There was even mention of ferries.
It was truly time to go. The roaming charges were getting a proper bashing with frequent browsing of various weather sites, and finally a weather window arrived. I say “window”, in reality this was just an 8 knot reduction for the Mirtoo Pelagos but that was good enough for this skipper. Other’s on the quay were staying put. Fearing a proper mutiny (I’d loaded the shippe’s revolver), a firm foot was planted amidships and the pronouncement was made — We Leave At Dawn — met surprisingly with only a small amount of mutterage.
Dawn came. Lucky Dawn. For us however, this was not an orgasmic moment, the wind seemed to have barely abated and upon waking up The Swedish Wind (our trusty Ovlov 2002 engine), it was apparent that Houston We Have a Problem. The freshwater pump had more or less thrashed itself to bits and was pissing cooling water all over the engine bay. Knowing that where we were located there was little chance of getting spares or a replacement without a considerable delay, I quietly closed up the engine bay and set the timer on my watch. 15 minutes later the orange overheat lamp illuminated and I switched the engine off.
The skipper did the math, 15 minutes with a 20 minute cooling off period would likely give us enough motion through the ocean to keep us out of problems if there was no wind… The forecast indicated plenty of it all the way across to just south of Hydra, where it was then scheduled to drop to the square root of sweet nothingness (something very much to look forward to!). “Gotta go”, said the skipper to himself. “Everyone ready”, said the skipper to the crew, leaving out the bit about the engine.
The revolt / mutiny had led to a very serious breakdown in discipline, so a check on whether the sandwiches had been made was met with a “I’ll do it on the way”, and a raised eyebrow from the skipper. “Best have a bucket down there then”, he thought imagining a cabin strewn of lumps of cheese, salami, mayonnaise and vomit.
Fortunately for us, our friends on Charlotte Too were also up and about for their departure towards Poros, and we carried out an assisted exit from the quay involving car tyre fenders and a lot of pulling on ropes to get her free.
“We’ll need this car tyre for the stern of Gamecock”, and handed it to Captain Crack.
Charlotte Too came in and received our tow line (with the wind and our corner position on the quay) there was no way we were getting off by ourselves.
Lines were freed. Captain Crack deployed the car tyre and we gently slipped out by the nose.
“Jump on!”, said the skipper to Captain Crack. Which he did.
“Where shall I put this?”, he said, holding the car tyre.
“Erm, you should have left that on the quay”, said the skipper. “We’ll do a go around and you’ll have to sling it back onto the quay.”
Our go around went around and just as we cleared a sight line onto the quay I realised that there was a wizened Greek geezer with a fishing pole and line out. “Malacca!!” shouted the fisherman. “Fuck” said the skipper as he whacked the engine into neutrals and prayed for the avoidance of international incident. Fortunately, we slipped over his line without any mishap and the car tyre was squished into the already brimming cockpit locker.
Gamecock’s bow was pointed over towards the windward side of the bay, sail covers were removed. Two reefs were put in on the main, engine was switched off, and we steered for the exit of Livadi sailing downwind quickly.
As soon as we got to the exit and turned right we were out of the breeze for the first time in 4 days giving us the opportunity to get ourselves properly adjusted with sandwiches made and the sweety box lodged in an appropriately convenient nook ready for emergency energy.
It was positively baking in the lee of the island and the genoa was extended to the max to keep us moving northwards towards the tip of Serifos.
One of our number was a little less nimble around the boat (and we blame mooring alongside in Serifos to cater for her dread fear of the plank, so a discussion was had about remaining below when it got lumpy. Reluctantly, she agreed not knowing what being in the lumpies would be like up top. The two evil captains didn’t let on that life below would likely be worse, but at least we wouldn’t have the worry of having to make sure she was still attached to the boat.
As we gently stood on northwards the horizon began to become more and more jagged. “Oooh”, said the skipper. “Booh” said the crew, and sure enough as soon as we got out of the lee, the washing machine started. 4 days of blowage can really whip up the Med into a bit of a frenzy.
The genoa was reeled in and Gamecock leant away from the 24 knots as we powered into the swells on a broad reach. Captain Crack assumed the position as the skipper watched the gyrating compass. An hour later, it became apparent that this was going to be an epic effort to keep her head pointing in the right direction and a couple of mad large ones had Captain Crack somewhat in a tizzy. “Just can’t keep her on track”. I dropped the traveller further down the track to ease the pressure on the tiller and things were a little better, but the nerves remained. Unsurprisingly, when a big swell knocked her off track and she slewed her butt around to present herself to a quartering sea it wasn’t pleasant, and in order to be in these conditions for the minimum amount of time we needed speed and in the right direction.
There were distinct noises of dissatisfaction coming from below. Noises like “Aaaargh, Uuuuurgh, Eeeeeeegh” followed closely by “Let me up, let me up, I feel sick”. The skipper looked at Captain Crack, “Lesser of two evils?” was the unspoken word. “Right you can come up, but you need to be shackled on, and bring the sandwiches with you!”. The three of us were now up top, and we plowed on.
So began my stint. A stint on the tiller that lasted a good 8 hours. Uncomfortable especially as our Spinlock tiller extension had been fubar’d which meant that the steering position was from the cockpit seats and not perched on the coamings. We plowed on. And on, and on. Although windy the sun was beating down and I fairly soon needed a smothering of sun block, especially on my feet which were beginning to resemble a mutated tomato.
It went on. With aching shoulders we willed Hydra closer. Gradually the wind started to abate, things became slightly more comfortable. The closer we got to Hydra the less breeze we had until just before Hydra’s western tip the breeze reduced to a whisper.
“We need to motor” said the crew. “Can’t” said the skipper as he fessed up to the state of play in the engine compartment. By now, the sun was dipping rapidly.
The wind had dropped and the swell had abated to a slop, making a broad reach a noisy (with the boom banging) process, but we gently reached forwards. 3 knots gave way to 2 knots and darkness came.
Finally, in the channel between Hydra and Platonisi it was time to fill up some water bottles ready to try to keep some water in the cooling system as we fired up the Swedish Wind and motored forwards past Petasi and into the Dhokos channel. With zero wind now, we motored until the temperature warning light blinked, refilled the fresh water reservoir and waited 20 minutes to restart and push forwards some more.
Finally, we reached the eastern tip of Dhokos and turned the corner to skirt the northern side of the island seeking out the wide entrance into Skindos bay where we planned to drop the hook for the night.
When I said darkness, I meant darkness. Black as the Ace of Spades, with a handful of anchor lights where I expected to see them we crept close in. Even with some powerful torches, it was not possible to figure out where we could lay out the anchor. Feeling nervous, a crew conflab took place and the decision was made to take advantage of a gentle night breeze which had kicked in to point Gamecock’s nose northwards once more to Ermioni.
Reaching beautifully quietly under genoa, a pasta boat modge was quickly prepared, the autohelm set and an impromptu late dinner was served on deck under twinkling stars.
We’d been at it since 7AM and it was now midnight as we sailed straight into the best side of Ermioni just in time to see Michaels, our favourite taverna, turn out the lights. Something, maybe tradition, made Michael look seawards, and with a wave the lights were switched on and he was, as always, on the quayside guiding us in and ready to take our lines.
With the aid of Brian, our awesome windlass we executed a perfect stern-to mooring, tied up, bid Michael a good night and wobbled up the plank to solid ground once more.
Bed came quickly. Morning sooner, and with it being market day and us in need of supplied a shopping trip was arranged and we returned to the boat, stowed it and went immediately back to Michaels where a rather large amount of Mythos was consumed with meze. This was followed shortly afterwards by the perfectly cooked (by Michael of course), bag of prawns we’d bought from the market.
And so ended our mad dash. The rest of our holiday was the usual combination of sane winds from a sane direction and quiet musings on whether we’d attempt Milos again.
I’ve always thought that uncomfortable thrashings at sea are akin to childbirth. The passage of time seems to erase just how challenging it was and I’m sure we’ll be pointing our brilliant little boat, Gamecock southwards again. Maybe next year?
