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9th – 18th September 2004
nature of our current life: departure from the marina required the raising of a bridge (via radio
call). As we passed beneath, a crowd gathered on the bridge; locals halted on their way to work,
and tourists snapped photos of the yacht gilding through…
Sailing westwards along the dramatic and beautiful Algarve coast, we were sorely tempted to
linger longer, and opted to drop anchor for lunch in an isolated cove under majestic yellow-ochre
cliffs, from where we swam into an impressive cave grotto, inaccessible from land but complete
with internal sandy beach and natural ‘skylight’: one of the joys of sailing along a coastline is
discovering such delights hidden from the coastal view.
Pressing on, we headed offshore for an overnight passage towards Cadiz: down with the
Portuguese courtesy flag, and time to re-hoist the Spanish one. En route we tested out ‘Freddie’
- our new deep-sea fishing line, replete with bright red squid lure, purchased in Falmouth by
Mark in a moment of glory. With unconcealed delight Mark landed our first catch that morning: a
6lb tuna fit for two! Calling for a celebration, we christened her ‘Anna’ (inaugurating our fish-
naming scheme), chilled a fine bottle of ‘vino blanco’, and diverted that evening to an anchorage
off Puerto Sherry in order to gut, prepare and feast on our prize… life is indeed made by such
moments! (further culinary details about Anna).
The old town of Cadiz proved a worthy destination: echoes of glory from a past empire still linger
at every corner, and the city beats to an altogether by-gone rhythm. During our short evening
there, we strolled lazily through the narrow alleys, ate tapas with the locals in a lovely leafy
square, admired an elaborate mob-style wedding at one of the cathedrals (men in black suits,
greased-back hair, dark shades; women in bright, shiny, over-fussy finery), drank Moroccan
spiced tea in a corner-bar, and finally, spent midnight watching Flamenco guitarists and singers
perform their melodramatic traditions in the open-air to a backdrop of grand colonial statues.
Beyond Cadiz we sailed towards the Straits of Gibraltar (the entrance to the Mediterranean and
one of the busiest shipping lanes in the world). Here was the first glimpse of Africa as the Atlas
Mountains rose out of the haze; being a balmy sunny day we decided to dive in for a mid-
straights swim off the back of the yacht before fighting the shipping ahead. That evening we
dropped anchor at the southernmost point of Europe, off the lively town of Tarifa, windsurfing
Mecca and not 8 miles from Morocco. Early the next morning we rowed ashore to explore the
town and buy freshly-prepared ‘churros’ for breakfast: the late-night town was barely awake
before we’d weighed anchor and set sail.
Next stop Gibraltar. With flying fish and dolphins to welcome us ‘The Rock’ hove into view, rising
tall like a sentry standing guard at the gates to the Med. After a few hours fighting currents and
dodging tankers in the busy harbour we made it to the customs check-in where the old-style
officials in crisp white Bermuda shorts and knee-high white socks signed off every litre of our
drinks cabinet, and granted ‘free practique’ (customs clearance). From there it rather went
downhill: all three marinas were full, and we had to anchor 50 yards off the end of the airport
runway – a dramatic spot indeed as the jumbos roared overhead, and a hard 15-minute row to
shore to boot! The mechanics were booked up, and the fabled well-stocked chandlery ashore
had none of the wide range of spares and yacht equipment we needed. At least the QE2 docked
just after us (in a vacant berth… & to marginally more fanfare), and we found sought-after travel
guides, duty-free Cuban cigars and booze to restock!
Gibraltar promises more than it delivers, and we resolved to move on swiftly: departing under
sail the wind whipped up as we rounded the Rock and fairly blew Skardu skipping across the
waves into the Med. With ‘Snow Patrol’ blasting forth from the stereo, and beers at sunset, we
enjoyed the finest sail since the last days crossing Biscay: Skardu was finding her rhythm,
making 8+ knots under double reefs, and our confidence in her was growing. In such good
spirits we hardly flinched when our TV was ejected from its secure cupboard, and jettisoned
airborne across the saloon as Skardu danced over a particularly lively patch of surf: it is
comforting to feel her rise up over thunderous waves that at one moment tower high threatening
to swamp the decks, transformed the next into harmless froth sliding away beneath.
The next day we had our first fixed appointment of the cruise – a rendevous to pick up Troels
Petersen at Benalmedina Marina – & weeks after making the arrangement we arrived within the
hour, pretty good after sailing 1,700 miles!! Fresh from a PhD in Paris, recently resident in San
Francisco, and cousin of our great friend Torben from Hong Kong, Troels stepped aboard and
became part of the Skardu outfit within minutes: a multi-talented Dane with a love of sailing
discovered onboard family yachts back in Copenhagen, he professes to be part poet, part
photographer, part Particle Physicist, part philosopher… but we prefer to think of him as “The
Hammer” – perhaps more on that later…
From Benalmadena we embarked on a 3-day non-stop sail along the Andalucian coastline until
touch-down on the South-West coast of Ibiza Island. Troels was swiftly introduced to the rigours
of night-sailing and watch-keeping, and was delighted by the 3am appearance of
phosphorescent dolphins streaking like aquatic comets through the inky-black seas around us –
a special experience for all. In the excitement Quintin rushed up on deck from his slumber and
gained a purple toe in the dark, accompanied by equally colourful language! On the final night
Skardu crossed the Greenwich Meridian – at snails pace – passing from the Western to
Eastern Hemispheres.
On the 18th of September we had an exceptional day’s sailing downwind under a perfect blue
sky, with the spinnaker flying for 9 hours straight, as we closed in upon the Balearic Islands.
Landfall was a moment to savour: the dramatic rocks in our sights all day were ‘Isla Vedra’, the
reputed home of the Sirens in Homer’s ‘Illiad’, and it felt like they were luring us into shore as we
approached Ibiza with chute up, making 7 knots out of the setting sun, Cuba Libra’s in hand, and
Ibiza chill tunes playing in the background. To cap it all, our friend David Ruiz had just arrived
from London and was standing there on the shoreline waving to us as we hove into view at the
delightful little cala beneath his new pad. After dropping anchor in the nearby cove and rowing
ashore, we got our first glimpse of David’s plush marble penthouse set amongst green hills with
a dream view, and knew we had arrived in style!
