Almeria, Spain

Fortune favored me during my watch as the wind gained strength, affording me the opportunity to single-handedly set the sails while the captain peacefully slumbered. Though his awakening was accompanied by a grumble at being roused, I triumphed in this nautical task unaided!

Morning arrives, and my quest for breakfast provisions in Cartagena unfolds. A quest for kefir or its semblance in the local market yields a linguistic challenge – the seller, bereft of English, and I, oblivious to Spanish. Yet, through a ballet of gestures, we communicate, and he bestows upon me a recommendation for a remarkable elixir. This concoction, according to his expressive pantomime, transcends mere kefir; it is the zenith of kefir excellence, infused with couscous. The allure of the unknown beckons, and I decide to indulge – for with couscous, why not? Just guide me through the alchemical process.

The vendor leads me to the grain section, gesturing towards the product packaging, suggesting that the integration of couscous requires no additional labor. A mere extraction from the fridge in the morn, a twist of the cap, a sip of this mystic elixir, and behold, life elevates!

He spoke true! This elixir, a revelation! A breakfast symphony encapsulated in a glass. One wonders, why isn’t such culinary splendor commonplace in our realms? A historical nod to couscous, once crafted from millet but now more commonly fashioned from semolina, beckons an endorsement for “Tchicha”!

Today unfolds, and once again, I navigate the intricate dance of sails unassisted, under the nocturnal caress of a wind bearing around 50 degrees. The captain, ensconced in restful oblivion, acknowledges my endeavors upon the engine’s cessation. Commending me for executing every maneuver according to the maritime scriptures, we resolve to make a pitstop in Almeria. Malaga awaits us as planned, but a refueling hiatus in this idyllic port beckons. The weather, a gracious accomplice, boasts a tranquilizing wind, coaxing us toward a possibility of a beachside sojourn, an oceanic nap, albeit interspersed with the demands of yacht maintenance.

Perhaps your maritime prowess surpasses mine, but in this personal saga, the satisfaction lies in the solitary orchestration from commencement to culmination.
A testament to my mettle, a keepsake etched in the annals of seafaring lore – with a 10-knot zephyr, I unfurled the sail, propelling the vessel at a stately 5.5 knots.
And here, in the haven of Almeria, we commence the ritual of lowering the sails.
Almeria unfurls before us.
We navigate the marina, a choreography synchronized to maritime precision.
Let our timepieces align (and might we calculate longitude while at it).

This city, with roots likely entrenched before our era, etched in early Christian manuscripts, witnessed a seismic rebirth in the 19th century post a formidable earthquake in the 15th century. A modern tapestry now unfolds, the city boasting a bustling port, efficient transport networks, and a meticulously restored historical nucleus. Within this precinct, denizens traverse in attire reminiscent of Ali Baba’s era, a live canvas breathing life into the age-old tales. Unlike Athens, showcasing ruins with a “what remains” ethos, Almeria embarks on a quest to revive its former grandeur, traditions, and cultural essence. It astounds that inhabitants find solace in these seemingly ancient abodes, navigating narrow avenues accessible only by foot or, perhaps, a nimble scooter. Yet, they embrace it, much to the delight of curious tourists.

Our odyssey leads us to the Holy Apostolic Cathedral-Fortress of the Incarnation Church, an architectural ode spanning the 16th to 18th centuries.
Doors…
Doors…
Doors, portals to history, bear silent testimony.
Approaching the Alcazaba Fortress
The Alcazaba Fortress was founded in 955 as a defensive stronghold by the first Andalusian caliph, Abd ar-Rahman III.
Jayrán al-Amiri, the second ruler of the Taifa of Almería, reigning from 1014 to 1028
The city and port unfold below, a panoramic spectacle from the fortress’s vantage.
Within its walls, performers adorned in regal attire from the era of the Arab caliphate regale tourists.
A bazaar beckons, an indispensable facet of this historical reverie.
Music wafts through the air, fountains narrate tales of antiquity.
Guess, does this Moorish figure belong to the realm of tourism or is he a local denizen?
Stylish walls of modernity juxtapose against the remnants of ancient edifices.
Pomegranate trees bear witness to the passing epochs.
Each door, a unique portal, a sentinel of bygone eras.
The Parish of St. Peter the Apostle, a testament to ecclesiastical heritage.

Refreshed, our voyage recommences. Night descends, and our compass aligns with Malaga. An additional crew member, an Italian architect, awaits our arrival, poised to partake in the impending transatlantic regatta. The captain’s daughter, too, graces us with her presence during our port sojourn. Perhaps Malaga will reveal its secrets or, perchance, we’ll surrender to the gentle lull of slumber on the sandy shores. The arduous crossings of the past week, punctuated by fleeting respites, have left us yearning for a restful night.

The sea, a placid expanse, accompanies our journey. A feeble breeze propels us forward, and despite the ambient warmth, a watery veneer envelops everything due to the deck’s moisture – a post-rain mirage. Despite the temperate air, I must don waterproof attire to navigate this dewy realm. With the sunrise, this ethereal moisture will dissipate, ceding the sea to the land. For now, we traverse as if encapsulated in a cloud. The horizon, obscured by mist, permits visibility of the coastline through the luminescent road garlands. Maritime traffic, an enigma in the foggy distance, unravels on the radar before manifesting in the mist. An hour hence, the captain shall resume command, and I shall retire for further repose.

Dolphins, a troupe numbering in the hundreds, have graced our morning! Their aquatic ballet ushers us toward the port of Malaga, now looming on the imminent horizon.