Cartagena, Spain

Our voyage from Ibiza to Cartagena, spanning approximately 200 nautical miles, unfolded over a day’s course. The celestial elements continued to shower us with benevolence. Along certain stretches of our trajectory, the wind, a steadfast companion, whispered through the rigging at 15-17 knots, close-hauled. Our vessel, a majestic dance partner with the wind, surged forward at 12-13 knots, propelled solely by its billowing sails. However, as the cloak of darkness enveloped the seascape, the zephyrs waned, compelling us to invoke the assistance of our trusty diesel companion. Yet, the journey held unexpected challenges.

In the capricious realm of maritime electronics, our auxiliary autopilot controller succumbed to a malfunction, succored by an infiltration of insidious moisture. Electronics, being creatures of fragility, harbor trepidations of moisture, salt, overheating, dust, and the capricious dance of electromagnetic radiation, epitomized by the tempest’s electrifying lightning. Placing unwavering trust in electronic navigation is a contemporary folly. Fortuitously, our arsenal extended beyond the realm of electrons, encompassing tangible safeguards: parchment charts, a celestial guide in the form of a sextant, a constellation of compasses, and atlases cataloging the aqueous domains we intended to traverse. The electronic façade, often an unfaltering ally, cradled in the hands of unreliability, was a double-edged sword. Its failure, though inconvenient, paled in comparison to the labyrinth of consequences that ensued when veracity became a casualty. As for the wayward controller, a mere half-dozen or so buttons adorned its visage, affording swift and convenient course adjustments. The abrupt rupture of this familiarity ushered in a disconcerting disquiet. Adjustments were still plausible with the primary controller, but the process metamorphosed into a labyrinthine ordeal, necessitating a pilgrimage into the menu, a transition to a specialized mode with an arcane keyboard, and only then, the capacity for adjustment unfurled. An arduous undertaking, bereft of the erstwhile convenience. Gratitude, then, for the benevolence of Elon Musk, bestowing upon us the celestial gift of StarLink internet. A salute to our captain, whose foresight beckoned the installation of this digital patron, the bill footed without a hint of parsimony. The cybernetic realm facilitated an instantaneous resolution. The requisite spare part was promptly unearthed within the labyrinth of online purveyors, its journey destined for a swift rendezvous at the port of Cartagena—a testament to the swiftness of cybernetic couriers, swiftly outpacing our nautical trajectory.

En route, our vessel was serendipitously greeted by the pageantry of a regatta, a cavalcade of sailboats bedecked in the entrancing raiment of black carbon sails—a spectacle of unparalleled elegance that etched itself indelibly into our maritime reverie.

En route to Cartagena, nature unfolded its exquisite splendor, a breathtaking vista that captivated our senses.
Amidst the culinary preparations for lunch, the captain serenaded the air with soulful jazz improvisations, the saxophone’s mellifluous notes weaving a harmonious tapestry.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, every sail unfurled against the canvas of the sunset, a magnificent spectacle painting the maritime expanse in hues of gold and amber.
A somber morning sky adorned the approach to Cartagena, its silhouette emerging on the distant horizon.
The port’s ingress, concealed behind the craggy sentinel captured on the left side of the photograph, marked our portal, an hour’s maritime sojourn yet to unfold.
The Christmas Fort, a sentinel armed with 16 formidable artillery pieces, has stood sentinel, a maritime custodian, since the annals of 1740.
Within the fortress’s bastions, cannons reminiscent of an era bygone now find repose, transformed into a museum that echoes with historical whispers. (Photograph sourced from Wikipedia)
Adorning the opposite channel, two NATO warships extend a cordial greeting, a maritime hospitality leaving naught to be desired.
Our berth nestled beside these nautical marvels.

Our berth nestled beside these nautical marvels, the port of Cartagena unfolded, a colossal testament to both magnitude and innovation. Modernity has embraced this harbor with lavish investments, reconstructing its entirety, save for the entrenched fortifications and the sentinel lighthouse, now an archival museum. The docking procedure, an effortless affair, unfolded in a vast expanse of commodious haven. Postponing repairs, cleansing rituals, and shipshape arrangements, we deferred our maritime chores to the morrow. Today beckons exploration, an excursion into the city’s embrace. In proximity to the harbor, historical landmarks abound, including the Roman Amphitheatre, while atop Conception Hill, a colossal medieval edifice from the 13th or 14th century, etched into the city’s standard, awaits our discovery.

Nestled in the annals of antiquity, the Roman amphitheater, a marvel erected between 5 and 1 BC, boasted an impressive seating capacity of around 7,000 spectators. Its illustrious history extended its embrace until the 3rd century, and today, diligent excavations endeavor to unveil its secrets.
A panoramic vista of the port unfolds from the commanding heights of the Castle of Conception (Castillo de la Concepción), a sentinel that has withstood the ravages of time.
Surveying the city’s expanse from the observant perch of the Castle of Conception, the panorama unfolds like a meticulously crafted tapestry.
A resplendent bronze bust immortalizes King Alfonso X, revered as “The Wise” and “The Astronomer.” This monarch, a triumphant force, wrested Cartagena from the Moors in 1245.
Graceful peacocks grace the surroundings, adding a touch of regal elegance to the ambiance.
A poignant relic from World War II bears witness, its proclamation echoing, “Our shores will be defended by our brave sailors.”
The city’s thoroughfares, straight and momentarily deserted, anticipate the lively stir of life that awakens post-sunset. Modern edifices with preserved historical façades line these newly minted streets.
The opulent mansion of the mining tycoon Agirre, an architectural marvel from the early 20th century, has metamorphosed into a museum and the regional government’s stately abode.
The Arsenal’s Guardhouse stands sentinel, harboring within its walls the intrigue of a museum, a destination awaiting exploration on the morrow.
Cartagena, unlike its historic counterparts, avoids the clamor of crowded streets, a testament, perhaps, to the subterranean parking havens that discreetly conceal the urban hustle. Surprisingly, the cityscape remains unruffled by vehicular commotion.
Carmen Conde, a luminary of letters, immortalized in a life-sized monument unveiled in May 2007, graces the street that bears her name.
As twilight descends, the city stirs to life; restaurants spill onto narrow avenues, welcoming locals seeking the camaraderie of communal tables.
Nightfall heralds a transformation; bathed in luminance, the cityscape adorns itself in evening allure, a symphony of lights casting an enchanting spell.
A monument paying homage to sailors disembarking on the shore stands tall, an emblem of maritime endeavors.
A memorial, poignant and reverent, honors the heroes who sacrificed in the crucible of the Spanish-American War of 1898 – a juxtaposition in a contemporary Spain, now a member of NATO.
The waterfront, adorned with ubiquitous palms, exudes a warmth that complements its innate beauty.
A monumental sculpture, towering at 5 meters, stands as a testament to victims of terrorism, an evocative presence in the city’s heart.
As the nocturnal veil descends, the waterfront transforms, a nocturnal spectacle that captivates the senses.

Cartagena, a city steeped in history, gracefully intertwines its storied past with a modern visage. Renewal breathes through its new buildings, each architectural gem meticulously preserving historical façades while embracing modern interiors. Parks, squares, cafes, restaurants, and museums punctuate its urban canvas. The dawn promises an exploration of these cultural gems nestled closest to the harbour, an eagerly anticipated sojourn into the city’s cultural heart.

Bathed in the golden embrace of sunlight, the city undergoes a metamorphosis, casting a spell that transforms familiar monuments, squares, streets, and houses into entities of newfound enchantment. It is as if I have stepped into an alternate realm within the same urban tapestry.

Very original souvenirs!
Street entertainment. These “artists” are quite inventive.
A Brief History of Cartagena
Here’s what the sculpture commemorating the victims of terrorism looks like during the day, and a slightly different perspective.
The unfriendly-looking cannons are gazing towards the sea.
A badass anchor of the admiral’s system.
This is one of the exhibits in the Museum of Underwater Archaeology. Boring. As my son used to say in childhood, “So fake!”
Exactly the tools my grandfather used.
The sextant is 100% functional; there’s nothing to fail here.

A sojourn to the hallowed halls of the Archaeological Museum unfolded, revealing a tableau of mere replicas, bereft of authentic treasures that, it appears, have found refuge in the bosom of private collections. The admission levy, a token to traverse its halls, served as a prelude to disappointment. Yet, the Maritime Museum, a serendipitous detour, proved a revelation. Liberation from obligatory fees greeted me at its threshold, with a voluntary solicitation of 2 euros lingering in the air—an elective overture. Here, the trove of exhibits was bountiful, and amongst them, some stirred the embers of fascination.

Sextants, those navigational instruments that, in the absence of GPS, unveil one’s geographical coordinates, danced within the museum’s narrative, though their harmonious symphony calls for the accompaniment of a chronometer.
Precisely so, a sextant, its function confined to latitude determination by measuring the celestial body’s elevation above the horizon, with the Pole Star as a celestial beacon. The elusive longitude, however, demands a meticulous dance with time, a role elegantly assumed by the chronometer.
A place of reverence was bestowed upon the AK machine gun.
Maxim machine gun
The galley
The compendium of maritime knots, a tapestry of intricate ties, deserves a dedicated exposition—a forthcoming tale.

A reminiscence echoed of our local history museum in Konstantinovka, a haven frequented with children after school days. Surprisingly meticulous despite its diminutive stature, it chronicled a city’s history now succumbing to the relentless march of time—a poignant lamentation for all that transpires in Ukraine.

Departing Cartagena, our compass pointed to Malaga, the arrival slated for Monday evening. Tonight, under a full moon, its luminance mimicking the sun at twilight’s embrace, an ethereal spectacle revealed itself. Hindered by the restless sea, a photographic tribute eluded my grasp. As the evening wore on, a benevolent breeze graced us, sails billowing in celestial harmony. Post-9 pm, however, the zephyrs waned, compelling the surrender of sails to the purr of the engine. Under engine propulsion, the undulating motions became pronounced, a less gratifying voyage. Hope lingers for a propitious wind to resurrect the symphony of sails. Presently, amidst my nocturnal watch, I survey the Almeria Bay coastline, a once-intended stop left for future chronicles. The nocturnal air carries a temperature of 24 degrees Celsius, laden with a humidity akin to the aftermath of a summer shower.

As nightfall enveloped our voyage, the radio broadcast news of Ukraine, inadvertently steering us into discourse on the region’s unfolding events. An unspoken agreement had kept political dialogues at bay, yet the captain’s perceptions of the Soviet Union as an omnipotent malefactor emerged. In an attempt to disentangle embedded stereotypes, a narrative unfurled, spanning from the bygone era. The captain, visibly disheartened, retreated into slumber, grappling with a newfound perspective on Soviet life, Perestroika, and the post-Soviet landscape. The metamorphosis from perceived conspiracy theorist to witness of unfolding realities left an indelible mark.

Fortuitously, sails emerge as a conversational haven, an abode of shared knowledge and fascination.

My watch nears its conclusion; at three in the morning, the captain will assume the helm, affording me a brief respite until the sun ascends at six.

Dawn, a herald in the Mediterranean Sea, awaits.