In the ethereal quiet preceding the dawn of September 17, I find myself penning heartfelt birthday wishes to my youngest daughter, Veronichka. Simultaneously, we embark on a poignant farewell to the sun-kissed shores of Sicily, our vessel gracefully charting a course toward the enchanting island of Sardinia. The haven of Palermo unfolds before us, bathed in the resplendent glow of early morning hues, an exquisite spectacle that we witness long before the day’s inaugural fishermen cast their nets—or so we presumed. Contrary to our assumptions, the seafarers are already at their craft. Etched upon the distant horizon, the majestic summits of the dormant volcanic terraces on the island of Ustica emerge into view; for now, we leave their allure to grace our starboard side, contemplating a future sojourn, perhaps. It’s worth noting that in the annals of 1700, the illustrious galley of the Maltese Order fleet, christened the “San Paolo,” foundered upon the shores of that very isle. On the port side, the silhouette of Cape Gallo graces our journey, an enduring sentinel of these maritime realms.
The entirety of the cape, along with its encompassing environs, unfolds as a sprawling natural reserve, a realm I yearn to explore, even as the notion of finding a suitable anchorage eludes my imagination. Virtually the entire coastal stretch of the island stands designated as a conservation haven for the marine flora, Posidonia. Anchoring is sternly proscribed by law wherever this aquatic verdure graces the seabed, irrespective of any carte blanche indicated on maritime maps. The penalties for transgressions are staggering, easily verified by the vigilant authorities; a police vessel draws near, prompting a mandate to hoist the anchor if so much as a trace of these algae manifests on the chain or anchor, demanding financial recompense. Pinpointing an enclave free from the clutches of Posidonia proves an arduous task. Although a specialized application sporting coastline maps exists, facilitating the exchange of information, its transient nature renders it ephemeral. The sole recourse appears to be navigating in close proximity to city beaches, where a slender hope lingers to glimpse sand bereft of pervasive overgrowth. Prudence dictates a brief sojourn, erring on the side of caution.
An exigency unfurls as we commence the ascent of the sail, only to discover, albeit belatedly, that a diminutive sheet has ensnared itself within a block. This sheet, a diminutive length of rope endowed with versatile applications, stands as a makeshift implement for securing items. Presumably, someone, in all likelihood, the captain himself, fastened it temporarily, an act since eclipsed by absentminded forgetfulness. In the course of raising the sail, the unfettered extremity becomes ensnared in the block’s sheave, impeding its fluid motion. While the sail achieves its zenith, a specter of uncertainty looms—lowering it seamlessly might prove elusive. The unsavory prospect of severing the rope, a measure we fervently wish to avoid, hangs heavy in the air. The captain and boatswain labor to rectify the quandary, a pursuit underscored by a commitment to minimal collateral damage, while I remain steadfast at the helm, holding our designated course.
A mere two hours hence, triumphant cheers erupted as the predicament found its resolution! With exuberance in our hearts, we now resume our journey, propelled forward by the billowing canvas of our sails! The wind, in a harmonious alliance with our maritime pursuits, favors our course (downwind) – prompting the captain’s sagacious decision to hoist the spinnaker, a sail adorned with distinctive azure inserts that distinguish it with an indigo elegance.
The atmospheric tapestry is undergoing a metamorphosis, and the zephyrs are assuming a more robust cadence – we are, quite literally, soaring through the azure expanse! However, another unforeseen episode (it appears that serendipitous incidents are in abundance today!) unfurls itself unexpectedly. Out of the cerulean abyss, the swivel hinge, a critical nexus where our resplendent spinnaker is affixed to the spinnaker halyard (a specialized line threaded through a pulley affixed at the mast’s zenith, facilitating the hoisting and lowering of the spinnaker), fractures. This diminutive component (captured in the photograph at a later juncture, post the detachment of the right section from the mast’s pinnacle):
Naturally, severed from its lofty mooring, the unfurled sail promptly transforms into a billowing standard, injecting a momentary shudder into the crew. Fluttering a farewell gesture a couple of times, akin to bidding adieu, the spinnaker gracefully descends into the watery expanse. Fortunately, this unfolds under the daylight’s auspices. The crew springs into instantaneous action. The captain deftly furls the mainsail, the primary sail, while the mate and I swiftly navigate the deck’s forepart, diligently salvaging our sail from the aquatic embrace. Saturated like denizens of the abyss, a potent wave collides with the vessel’s flank (deliberately relinquishing control momentarily, as igniting the engine with the sail in the water is proscribed), propelling the boat into a roller-coaster ride upon the undulating waves—a challenging endeavor to maintain one’s seat!
Various harrowing narratives flit through the psyche. Gratitude permeates the thoughts: how fortuitous that it didn’t rend asunder completely! Fortunate, too, that we find ourselves distanced from the shore, bereft of neighboring vessels, and our reliance on the engine is nonessential—otherwise, we might have bid adieu not only to the sail but potentially the propeller as well. Meanwhile, Bruno and I wrest the sail from the aquatic depths, and in a jubilant realization that we’ve escaped with a fleeting fright, we encapsulate it within a kite (a specialized sail bag), leaving it sprawled on the deck to bask in the sun’s restorative glow. To avert the next rogue wave from sweeping our kite overboard, we secure it to the lifeline fence and rails using the same sheets (ropes governing the sails) — the spinnaker predicament resolved.
Nevertheless, an interim enigma persists — at the mast’s zenith, on the spinnaker halyard, dangles a fragment of the fastening apparatus, inherently lightweight, impeding the descent of the halyard due to its gravitational resistance. Hence, it perpetuates its suspended oscillation, persistently colliding against the mast — a disconcerting acoustic companion. The hope lingers that before our arrival at port, this enigmatic appendage refrains from causing any damage or plunging us into madness with its incessant clatter.
As the captain and the mate redeploy the mainsail and align our trajectory, I gravitate towards the galley, expeditiously setting the kettle to simmer and preparing a hastily conjured lunch. Culinary solace is the supreme antidote to the stress unfurling during these traversals. Today’s gastronomic repertoire showcases a crew favorite – the Greek Salad adorned with delectable feta cheese.
Recipe (for three):
- 3 tablespoons of olive oil (must be Greek and extra virgin)
- Juice of half a lemon
- 1-2 cloves of garlic
- 1 teaspoon dried oregano (or to taste)
- 1 teaspoon sea salt (or to taste)
- 1/4 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper (or to taste)
- 2-3 tomatoes
- Half of a white or red onion, or better yet, both
- 1-2 cucumbers
- 1 green bell pepper
- 150 grams of feta cheese (it’s best to put large chunks on top according to the number of eaters – let them crumble it themselves later)
- 12 pitted olives (medium-sized)
The banquet table becomes a stage for joy, where laden stomachs transform the world into a kinder spectacle. Laughter cascades freely, a lively symphony recounting our initial shock at the sight of the detached sail. We delve into the incident’s intricacies, dissecting its anatomy, scrutinizing our responses – a thorough post-mortem. The discourse unfolds, weaving through the labyrinth of causation, contemplating our actions, distinguishing the right from the not-quite-right, a collective effort to fortify ourselves against future missteps.
Our captain, a maestro of the maritime arena, is a devotee of sails. A virtuoso in the art of sail manipulation, he orchestrates their dance, achieving the yacht’s zenith speed with finesse. His love for these billowing canvases knows no bounds, hours immersed in their meticulous adjustments, discourse flowing ceaselessly, a lyrical narrative for each sail.
Sensing an opportune moment, I embark on a quest to unravel the enigma he often references as the “Code Zero.” The nomenclature, an anomaly – no Code 1 or Code 2 precedes it. Why Code 0? The revelation unravels in the realm of regattas, where athletes, in their perpetual pursuit of sailing perfection, innovate ceaselessly. Those with munificent sponsors delve into even more avant-garde modifications, such as additional sails. To curb a financial arms race in regattas, organizers devised a penalty system. Exceeding class standards incurs penalty points, a leveller for all participants. Victory is not merely about crossing the finish line first; it is about navigating the race within the defined standards. Extra sails result in penalty points, labeled as “codes.” Enter the Code Zero, a sail meticulously crafted within standard size confines, surpassing its counterparts in technical prowess. Athletes deploy it as their sole front sail in light wind conditions, avoiding penalty points as it adheres to the standard. Thus, the moniker “Code Zero” is etched in sailing lexicon, an elegant solution to a regulatory dance.
In the crucible of modernity, innovations from the sporting arena find their way into everyday life, often in more straightforward forms. The Code Zero sail, birthed in the competitive fervor of regattas, migrated seamlessly into the cruising domain. Unlike on racing yachts, cruising vessel owners retain their genoas or jibs, employing the Code Zero as an auxiliary sail. Its prowess shines on close-hauled courses with a stable wind, especially during lengthy voyages. Yet, in conditions demanding frequent tacking, where quick adjustments are imperative, the seasoned crew’s deftness is indispensable. Here, the venerable jib emerges as the paragon of efficacy. If the yacht boasts a self-tacking headsail system, as Legato does, the choreography of sailing, even in tempestuous seas, transforms into a gratifying spectacle. This is our maritime tapestry, woven with threads of skill, innovation, and the enduring allure of the sea.
The helmsman elegantly swiveled the wheel to the starboard, and the vessel, in response, gracefully inclined towards the celestial expanse, while the sail, like a dutiful partner in a dance, gracefully leaped to the starboard side. In this orchestrated maneuver, the helmsman orchestrated a gybe with a mere rotation of the wheel, a seamless choreography where no hands were required to tug at any ropes. The Code Zero, however, demands a ballet of precision that eludes the grasp of a solo performer. It unfurls its brilliance through a synchrony of efforts, a balletic interplay requiring a minimum trio of adept crew members. Their task: a rapid, harmonized ballet of releasing sheets on one tack, lightening the sail’s load, physically ferrying it to the opposing flank, and in an almost instantaneous gesture, deftly tweaking its configuration. This level of seamanship is an alchemy born of relentless drills. Few skippers in the cruising realm can parade such virtuosity or assemble a crew of comparable finesse. In this domain, the cry is for mechanization and automation over virtuosic prowess.
The sun has surrendered to the embrace of dusk, a transition unnoticed as we glide into a realm cloaked in partial fog. A mystical haze blankets the horizon, an evanescent shroud as the warm sea surrenders its essence to the night. Our vessel gracefully traverses the waters beneath the unfurled sail, enveloped in tranquility, a solitary presence amid the vast expanse stretching for hundreds of miles. The nocturnal canvas unfolds, and my fervent hope lingers that the quota of maritime emergencies for the day has been depleted.
In the ensuing hours, the baton of vigilance will pass to my hands. I eagerly anticipate the ritual of rest in anticipation of my upcoming watch. An alarm, set with precision, shall stir me from my slumber half an hour before duty calls. Adequate time to rouse my senses, make a discreet entrance into the cockpit, herald the approaching shift to my shipmate, set the kettle on a gentle hum, assess the atmospheric tapestry, and don suitable attire for the maritime nocturne.
To preserve the sanctity of the night, the luminescence of artificial lights remains dormant. Adorning my head, a cap gifted by my progeny hosts a diminutive red flashlight — a beacon of soft crimson illumination that navigates my gaze through the obsidian shadows without vexing the eyes or distracting the helmsman. Its gentle glow, a silent companion, reserved for moments of necessity. Two weeks of habitation upon this seafaring abode have imbued me with an intimacy that allows me to traverse its contours with ease, even in the embrace of profound darkness, guided by tactile intuition.
I relieve Bruno for the watch, and in this transition, he imparts the captain’s directives, a concise relay of the watch’s chronicles during his tenure. Winds shift, currents weave their tales, the course endures adjustments, and the silent presence of “neighbors” is noted — a nautical term for vessels, even if distant by miles. Any anomalies or malfunctions warrant a meticulous acknowledgment. Bruno retreats to the cabin, surrendering to the call of rest, and the mantle of safeguarding our nocturnal sojourn falls upon my shoulders.
The essence of watch-keeping is an art in simplicity — a perpetual state of observation. The focal points are manifold: the undulating surroundings, the temperamental weather, the distant “neighbors,” and potential perils. Though the navigator’s monitor and paper charts narrate a preconceived course, the sea, capricious in its spontaneity, may usher unexpected guests — perhaps a colossal turtle or an errant cargo container. An attentive scan of the marine theater is imperative, every instrument’s functionality scrutinized, and the silent nocturnal vigil becomes a symphony of vigilance. The radar’s glow, the dance of navigation signals, and the frequencies of radio stations — all demand acute interpretation. In moments of looming danger, the captain’s realm awakens.
As time unravels in the nocturnal watch, a soft luminescence emanates from the captain’s quarters — a vigilant stir from his slumber to relieve me. Our navigational strategy is plotted to unveil the destination port in the tender embrace of early morning light, under the canvas of dawn. The watch schedule, an orchestrated symphony, designates the captain for the dawn watch — the most intricate of the maritime ballet. The proximity to land magnifies the stakes, where perils proliferate, and within the harbor’s confines, dangers loom with every turn. In this labyrinth of potential collisions and meticulous maneuvers, the captain shoulders the mantle of responsibility, a role I am yet in the process of mastering.
On the distant horizon, the vibrant tapestry of Cagliari unfurls, a spectacle of hues that eludes the grasp of our photographic lens. As we approach the marina, a quick orchestration of order transforms the cockpit and deck, a choreography born of readiness. Sails, those billowing emissaries of the wind, gracefully yield to the pull of gravity, conceding to the imminent dance under motor power alone. Mooring lines, poised like vigilant sentinels, stand ready for their tactile engagement. Fenders, elastic custodians against nautical collisions, are strategically positioned along the yacht’s flanks and stern, awaiting their moment of purpose.
The ritual of preparing to berth is initiated, and I retrieve the winch handle, don gloves – a tactile ritual, indeed. Handling mooring lines is an art learned through experience, where barnacle-clad strands, submerged in the aquatic realm, demand respect, their unforgiving touch an ever-present threat.
The captain assumes the helm, guiding our vessel with deftness through the labyrinthine confines of the marina. In these tight quarters, intricate maneuvers become the norm, necessitating a delicate ballet to nestle our yacht between its neighbors, where proximity reigns supreme. Communication with the marina unfolds over the radio, a sonnet of permissions, clarifications, and navigational coordinates. The duty mariner’s voice resonates with crucial details – the designated mooring space dimensions, pontoon or dock height, and the forthcoming greeting party. Armed with this information, we meticulously position fenders and ready the mooring lines for the delicate pas de deux to come.
On the dock, a youthful mariner, fluent in multiple tongues, stands in eager anticipation, waving us ashore. Their demeanor, a symphony of warmth, greets us with smiles and a willingness to assist. They become our navigational muses, guiding us to the office where a wealth of information awaits. Brochures unfurl, maps charting the marina, the port, and the town materialize, bearing vital annotations. As we engage in post-voyage banter, tales of the day’s trials and tribulations are spun, the torn sail metamorphosing into a lighthearted anecdote, a shared jest. The gravity of the challenges faced is understood, yet the camaraderie allows for shared laughter. Insight into local amenities, suggestions for exploration, and guidance on any conceivable query are generously bestowed by these maritime custodians.
With the yacht secured and the formalities concluded, we set our course for the office, a nexus of information and camaraderie. Conversations unfold, curiosity blooms, and inquiries about the city, dining recommendations, or repair guidance find hospitable ears. The marina staff, benevolent navigators of both sea and local knowledge, readily extend their assistance.
In our arsenal lies nearly everything required to undertake the delicate task of retrieving the spinnaker halyard ensnared at the mast’s pinnacle. The captain, embodying the epitome of agility, is equipped with a specialized climbing harness, akin to a bosun’s chair, albeit reminiscent of a child’s swing seat. In this aerial ballet, he ascends, accompanied by my winch-handling precision and the vigilant watch of the first mate ensuring safety protocols. Our maneuvers, a spectacle for onlookers, unfold in meticulous detail.
Yet, amidst our maritime preparedness, an unforeseen lacuna manifests. The captain, our intrepid helmsman, realizes the absence of a sports helmet, a crucial safety accessory, inadvertently left behind in the rush of preparations. Despite my persuasive entreaties to seek assistance from neighboring vessels, the captain, undeterred and resolute, chooses to ascend sans helmet. A wide-brimmed hat, his unconventional substitute, shields against the sun, a steadfast companion in this unexpected high-seas theatre.
It will be necessary to add music to this video. Something from Charlie Chaplin’s films will suit perfectly.
Triumphant, the mission concludes, ushering in a moment of respite. Cagliari, with its resplendent allure, unfurls before us—a tapestry of architectural splendor and historical richness. Anticipating the imminent repairs, we shall linger in this picturesque town for a span of two days—a temporal canvas wherein the vessel shall undergo meticulous restoration, while our senses embark on an exploration of the myriad local treasures that grace this enchanting locale.
