Essaouira, Morocco pit stop

 

Leaving La Linea and Gibraltar in the chilly pre-dawn darkness,  we were surrounded by constellations of colorful twinkling lights:  lights on shore, on other vessels, and on navigational aids.  SD puttered down the bay with the crew bundled up in hoodies,  Ken at the helm and Katie nursing her second cup of coffee, as we passed the looming black hulls of anchored big ships, with their upper decks lit up like landed spacecraft.

At first light, we entered the Strait of Gibraltar, known for its erratic and sometimes violent conditions. Happily, we made our passage with only a few encounters with tide rips and  patchy fog, and Ken quickly got wise to some wave patterns that he was able to use to give us a boost.

Tarifa Light – kite boarding mecca, but calm conditions on the day we passed it.

Once we were in the Atlantic Ocean, we were met with 9-12 foot swells from the NW, but with a calm sea state and a 12-second period between the swells, we weren’t uncomfortable.

Over the next three days, winds were for the most part light and variable. We saw little marine traffic other than an occasional ship or fishing boat, and one open fishing boat that came alongside SD, her crew smiling, waving, and asking for cigarettes. (No joy there, mates.)

      Morocco welcoming committee

The predicted northerlies were too light to overcome the big swell, although one brief period of a northerly breeze had us flying our spinnaker for a couple of hours. However, for most of the passage we ended up doing a lot of motor-sailing. So much so, in fact, that we realized that we were going to run out of fuel before we reached our destination. With no useable wind in the forecast, we set a course for the coast of Africa, and headed for Morocco and the port of Essaouira.

Essaouira was once the main port serving Marrakesh. From the mid-18th to the end of the 19th century, the caravan trade travelled from sub-Saharan Africa to Timbuktu, through the desert and over the mountains to Marrakesh. From Marrakesh to Essaouira, the road is a straight line.

We arrived at Essaouira at dawn, anchored in the big bay outside the harbor, and made some much-needed coffee while waiting for the daylight to fill in. At full light we dinghied into the “U”-shaped harbor, and were met with a scene the likes of which we’d never yet encountered.

Big 60-foot work-weary wooden trawlers and dredges were rafted 3-deep along one area of the concrete quay, while another section held several dozen small open wooden boats, all bunched up together like a flock of sheep.  The quay was crowded with people buying and selling the just-off-the boat fish, and the fish were everywhere – some loaded in carts, some dumped on ice in coolers, some simply piled up on tarps on the ground. Nets lay here and there in lumpy mounds, and reefer trucks, motorbikes, and bicycles dodged  the thongs of pedestrians. Over it all, a blizzard of seagulls filled the sky, diving and wheeling, crying and complaining. And pooping.

     

     

We tied up at a small dock and were immediately greeted by a port official, who directed us to Immigration. Enroute to the office, we met a policeman at the sentry post, who spoke excellent English and kindly escorted us to the proper door. Using a mix of French and English, we managed to get checked in, and followed up with Customs and the Port Police. The officials politely insisted that we move SD into the harbor, “for your security”.  Never being ones to argue with foreign police, especially ones carrying side-arms, off we went to fetch her in. We rafted up to the only other yacht in the harbor, a local day-tripper boat crewed by Sayeed and English–speaking Omar, both of whom were all smiles and only too happy to be of assistance.

           

Our English-speaking policeman friend procured a taxi for us, which turned out to be a motorcycle with a pick-up truck-type bed on the back. Omar came along as translator, and somehow managed to sit beside the driver on the motorcycle, while we squatted in the back, with seven jerry jugs and the corpse of someone’s old outboard motor. After a stop at an ATM, we hit the fuel station, filled our jugs, and returned to SD to top up our tank. Easy peasy. As we were passing the sentry post on re-entry, “our” policeman halted us to inspect the success of our mission, and, nodding his approval, said to Ken, “You give him [the driver] five, and also give him [Omar] something”. Roger that.

We spent the afternoon catching up on the sleep we’d missed the night before, and in the evening took a stroll around the edge of the harbor. We were immediately adopted by a smiling older gentleman, who appointed himself as our tour guide, pointing out historical sites and offering tidbits of local color. Evidently this was once quite the draw as an exotic get-away for the “tune in, turn on, drop out” crowd,  and sometime in the late 1960’s, Jimi Hendrix and Cat Stevens stayed here. (Although probably not together.)  As we walked, we passed stall after stall of fish for sale, now all attractively arranged to tempt buyers. The sheer volume was astonishing:  fin fish, sharks, conger eels, shrimp, squid, mussels, and thousands of sardines.

     

     

We bought a bowl of excellent spicy home-made soup from a Muslim lady tending a little food cart, and ate it sitting on the high wall that fronts the seaward side of the harbor, watching local teenagers swimming in the sea against a wicked current.

      

We thanked our guide (and greased his open palm) and went off to the open-air restaurant area a few meters inland, ready to treat ourselves to some of that super-fresh seafood. The fish at the restaurant were displayed on a bed of crushed ice, and we selected a small snapper, a dozen fresh sardines, and a handful of calamari rings. It all arrived at our table fifteen minutes later, grilled to perfection, with no breading, batter, dressing, or sauce, other than fresh lime wedges to squeeze over it all. Outstanding!

After our meal, we took a walk into the old town, wandering in the fading light through the rabbit warren of narrow streets as the wail of the muezzin began from the nearby mosque. Filled with tiny, colorful, bazaar-style shops, the maze of streets had a definite aura of the exotic images that come to mind with the names Morocco, Marrakesh, and Casablanca.

Returning home to SD, we gratefully settled in for a night of uninterrupted sleep. With a planned early-morning departure, we regretted being unable to spend more time in this remarkable town, but we will remember forever the magic of Morocco.

Departing at first light

Cheers! Katie and Ken

SandDollar_N4KS@yahoo.com

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Exiting Europe

 

Dear Family and Friends,

We departed Cartagena after a mere day and a half, since we were, as usual, chasing a weather window.  However, we did manage a stroll along Calle Mejor, a major pedestrian walkway lined with boutiques and tapas bars, and full of baroque-y looking architecture.

Palacio Consistorial, Cartagena’s City Hall

At a little sidewalk café we ordered Cokes, which arrived in petite six-ounce bottles with accompanying glasses of ice. Spiking the Cokes with our own rum, smuggled in via little airline bottles, we congratulated ourselves on being thrifty. Yeah, well……..      When we paid our tab, we discovered that the charge for two Cokes apiece totaled 7.20 Euros, or almost 10 bucks US. Those little soft drinks cost more than gasoline!

From Cartagena, we continued west, sailing around Cabo de la Gata (“Cape of the She-Cat”) into the Gulf of Almeria. By 0200 we were five miles from Marina Aguadulce, so we lowered sail and lay a-hull until daylight. The night was calm, so our drift was minimal, and we motored in and were assigned a berth. The marina is situated at the edge of a pleasant but unremarkable town whose sandy beach is popular with the locals.

We spent four days doing nothing much, but were delighted to find a shop selling bulk wine. Oddly, tasting was not permitted, but we gambled on a liter of a local rose’. When we paid for the stuff, we were astonished to be charged five Euros, which is a pretty stiff tab for bulk wine, and as soon as we were out on the sidewalk we snuck a swig to see what we’d gotten ourselves into. Happily, it proved to be delicious, but at that price we were relieved that we hadn’t asked for more.

Sixty-four miles further down the coast we anchored for a night on the west side of the bay at La Herradura ( “the Horseshoe”), where we were alone off a rocky little beach. The following day we continued on to Fuengirola, anchoring off a beach that was the polar opposite of La Herradura. Umbrellas and sun-worshipers were so thick that it would have been a real challenge to navigate among them.  The tiny anchorage, just outside the marina, was similarly congested, creating an obstacle course of pleasure craft, fishing boats, jet-skis, stand-up paddlers, and (unbelievably) swimmers, who seemed oblivious to the near-death experience they were courting. Power-boats were much in evidence, their purpose seeming mainly to be as platforms to showcase the macho men at the helm and the babes on the bow.  We couldn’t swing to our anchor without either blocking the marina channel or capsizing some passing paddle-boarder, so Ken put out a stern anchor, and SD was secure for the night.

We weighed anchor at 0930 the following morning, timing our departure to arrive at Gibraltar’s Europa Point at a slack or falling tidal stream, as we sure weren’t keen on entering the Strait bucking a foul current, which can run as much as three knots.  We motored all day in a dead calm over a glassy sea, rounding the Point at 1730, with the Rock of Gibraltar itself looming high above us to starboard.

Here we did encounter some tide rips and an adverse current, but SD took it in stride, and we were soon out of it and motoring north up into the Bay of Gibraltar, where we took a berth in Spain’s pretty Marina Alcaidesa in La Linea. Side-tied and bow-in to our slip, our cockpit looked out onto the Rock.

Having made it this far in a timely fashion, we were now ahead of schedule, with time to kill before sailing for the Canary Islands. We off-loaded our folding bicycle and took turns riding along a wide esplanade that skirts the bay. Weather here is a mixed bag; some days fog rolled in so thickly that the Rock was fully cloaked, but on other days the sky was so clear that from the head of the bay we could look south and see the coast of Africa, about 15 miles away.

There’s not much to see in La Linea, so we trotted over to Gibraltar,  a ten-minute walk away. To get there, pedestrians and vehicles all have to cross a live airport runway. Police are stationed at either side of the runway, and when an aircraft is due to land or take off, a siren sounds and a barricade drops to belay the flow of traffic. When we are on the boat,  the runway itself is obscured by foliage, but we can see the tail-fins of passing planes, like the dorsal fins of cruising sharks.

In Gibraltar, we found ourselves in the first country in our six years of cruising where the national language is English. We had a fine breakfast at a pub called the Clipper, and although our Euros were accepted in payment, our change came in pounds sterling. We strolled congested pedestrian Main Street  and went to Mass at the Cathedral of St. Mary the Crowned. This lovely church, full of soaring arches and vaulted ceilings, was “converted” to a Roman Catholic Cathedral in 1462, although the guide doesn’t say from what.

We visited the Gibraltar Museum, which is reputed to house wonderful original artifacts and old prints, but we’ll have to take their word for it, as the place was closed for renovation when we got there. Likewise the old King’s Chapel, which looked intriguing from the outside. Disappointing,  but there you have it.

A visit to Sheppard’s Chandlery lightened our wallets of some significant funds, but we were happy to find some much-needed items, including some fuel additives which those pesky airline folks annoyingly refuse to allow on their planes.

Friday September 12 is our departure date, so at 0730, to catch a favorable tide,  we’ll cast off the ducklings. (A few years ago, the computer hilariously auto-corrected our “dock-lines” to “ducklings”, so that’s what we call them now.) Sand Dollar will get her first taste of the Atlantic Ocean(!), and six hundred miles later we’ll arrive at the Canary Islands (we hope!).

Cheers!  K&K

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Westward, ho!

On our final morning in Sicily, we cast off dock-lines at 0800 and set our course for Teulada, Sardinia, 220 miles west. Once underway, we shared a cantaloupe for breakfast in the cockpit, as SD motor-sailed over a flat sea along Sicily’s south coast;  by nightfall the island was no longer visible. There were flickers of lightning far away to our north, but the night sky above us was clear, dotted with hundreds of stars, with the stardust-y looking band of the Milky Way arcing overhead. Very cool to be able to look out at the edge of our galaxy!

Despite variable winds and a lumpy sea, we were making good progress until late the following night, when the engine began running erratically. Ken’s inspection revealed dirty fuel, and for the next five hours, he nursed the engine along, bleeding fuel, changing filters, adding fresh fuel, and coaxing it back to life each time its diminishing RPM’s signaled impending doom.  As Captain Ron says in the hilarious movie of the same name, “If anything is gonna happen, it’s gonna happen out there!”  Too true.
 
Thanks to his efforts (Ken’s, not Captain Ron’s), we were anchored in Teulada, Sardinia by 0730, and got right to work pumping out the foul diesel and changing the engine oil.  In Teulada, diesel is only available by delivery to boats in the marina; there’s no fuel on site.  So in we went, and wasted no time in hooking up our hose to wash off all the salt and any traces of diesel. We also had a “situation” in the galley;  a particularly wicked wake from a big patrol boat had caused an expensive bottle of maple syrup to escape from its compartment and leap to its death, creating a mess of broken glass and sticky syrup inside (thank goodness) one of the lockers. Bummer.

There was nothing much at the marina other than a backdrop of pretty hills, so we treated ourselves one evening to rum and Cokes at the patio bar, and the next day took a bus eight miles to the unremarkable little town for provisions. We spent a couple of days back in the anchorage, waiting for a weather window, and weighed anchor one sunny afternoon as we bid “arrivederci” to Italy and pointed SD’s bow toward Spain, 435 miles away.

We had a mixed bag of weather for the passage, and although we had some benign periods, we also had a day of confused following seas, 2-3 meters, and Ken ended up doing a lot of hand steering. In the standard Med conditions of either no wind, too much wind, or wind on the nose, we didn’t get a whole lot of sailing in, and had to motor-sail so much that we ended up too low on fuel to make it to Spain.

Fortunately, the island of Ibiza was just a few miles north of our rhumb line, and so we altered course and arrived there late one morning. We knew that Ibiza had a reputation as a playground for the rich and famous, but we were still unprepared for the shock of reality. The place was like Fort Lauderdale’s Bahia Mar on steroids. There were three crowded marinas in the harbor, berthing dozens of monster mega-yachts and assorted floating palaces. We had to wait in the queue for fuel,  and little SD was like a chihuahua among Great Danes, daintily turning lazy circles while dodging passing behemoths. We took on our bunkers and beat feet, but even after leaving the harbor, we were still at the mercy of the big boys for another five miles, as one after the other they came roaring past us as we headed south, creating wakes that rolled SD mercilessly.

The final night of our passage was blessedly uneventful, and at 0300, we crossed the Prime Meridian into the Western Hemisphere, our home “half” of the planet. Arriving at Marina Alicante at 0730, we took our berth and proceeded with our usual “boat wash”. Tired from the passage and the clean-up, we waited til the following day to see some of this lovely old city. The ninth-century Castle of Santa Barbara sits high on a hill overlooking the town and the marina. The main street along the waterfront boasts one of the most beautiful promenades in Spain, the Explanada de Espana, which is paved with 6.5 million marble floor tiles, making the surface appear to be moving. Landscaped with lots of greenery, palms, and shade trees, it’s popular for strolling or just sitting and people-watching.

We visited the amazing Volvo Ocean Race Museum, which is located right at the marina, as Alicante is the site for the start of the race, which this year is on October 4th. The Disney-sponsored “The Black Pearl” took second place overall with Paul Cayard skippering about 10 years ago, and the boat is on display on hardstand in front of the building.  Admission is free, and the museum was truly impressive in its presentation of the almost unimaginable demands that this incredible race puts on the boats and their crews.




Paul Cayard – one of the great USA sailors

The control center getting ready for the upcoming Volvo Ocean Race

The arrival of a timely weather window had us leaving Alicante after too short a stay, but we cast off and headed south along the coast, picking up a mooring for the night at little Isola Grosa, just offshore from the big lagoon known as Mar Menor.  Following a bit of a roll-y night on the mooring, we continued on after coffee in the morning, and (wonder of wonders!) we actually got to SAIL to Cartagena!

The day was beautiful, the easterly wind was moderate, and SD scooted along wing and wing under main and headsail, making good speed. (Our trip log at the end of the passage revealed a max speed over ground of 8.9 knots!!)  Our route took us along the coastline past the Sierra de la Fausilla mountains. These desolate grey mountains rose high above us, with menacing-looking jagged peaks and with steep rocky slopes running all the way down to the sea. No sandy beaches here! A forbidding coast, but starkly beautiful in its severity.

Lighthouse at Cabo de Palos

We made Cartagena by noon, and hope to have a little time to see this famous city while we wait for the next (you guessed it) – weather window!

Katie and Ken



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Sciacca, Sicily

 

Ken’s dental work was finished on Friday and lucky for us, there was a 30-hour weather window good for heading west beginning Saturday, July 26. So we took advantage of it and got underway at 0730 Saturday morning under calm conditions.

Leaving wonderful Siricusa, Sicily in our wake.

Siricusa fish market

It appears there is still plenty of tuna and swordfish being caught in the Med!

We hoped to get 142 miles west to the port of Sciacca (Shock’-uh) located near the southwest corner of Sicily. This would put us in a good spot for the next favorable weather window to continue our westward journey. The passage was uneventful and took 27 hours to complete, 24 of which were motor-sailing. Listening to the drone of the engine for that long period of time was tiring, but we weren’t complaining; happy to be making miles west while the going was good.

The sea was glassy the night before our arrival, and on deck the air was cold and damp. But the summer constellations were visible overhead, and the lights of Sicily’s seaside towns glittered brightly to starboard, making the night watch seem a little warmer.  By morning there was a heavy swell running, and although it eventually flattened out, we soon found ourselves in a pea-soup fog. We could barely see one-tenth of a mile, and by the time we arrived off Sciacca’s harbor at 1030 Sunday morning, the glare of the sun behind the thick fog completely obscured our vision. We stumbled around trying not to run into anything and finally spotted a small boat headed into the harbor and followed in its wake.

On entering the harbor we were directed to one of the transit slips in the marina. The well-designed harbor is used by pleasure boats and a large fleet of fishing boats. We got in just under the wire, because a few hours later it was“blowing like stink from the west.

The pleasure boat side of Sciacca’s harbor; you can barely see SD’s masts, just inboard of the big power boat at far left.

Sciacca’s ancient town is built high on a hill, with spectacular views overlooking the harbor and the sea. The narrow streets, paved with slate and marble, open onto wide piazzas, and enormous weathered churches and basilicas appear at every turn.  The new town has spread its buildings down onto the lower slopes of the hill, but the real action is in the old sector, reached by a challenging series of steep steps. (Unless you have a car, which is not part of SD’s gear.)  The evening is the high point of the day, when the locals all hit the ancient streets for their passeggiata (evening stroll), often dressed to impress, to see and be seen. All the shops and trattorias are open, as are small kiosks selling “street food”, and some streets are closed to vehicular traffic. It’s an abondanza of people-watching!

SD’s skipper, hangin’ with the home-boys!  The “URP” sign translates to “Official Public Relaxation” spot!

One of Sciacca’s charming little side streets

Sciacca is known for its “majolica”:  hand-painted glazed ceramics; it even decorates wall and steps

Sciacca side street

Our trusty steed. We picked up this cute little folding bike in Thailand and it has served us well.

We ended up spending six days in one of the Sciacca marinas and it has been a good stop. Beginning Saturday, it looks like we have a 48-hour weather window good for heading west. This should give us enough time to make the 223 mile offshore passage to the southwest corner of Sardinia before another friggin’ Mistral gets brewing. We plan on getting underway tomorrow morning. Stay tuned.

Cheers! Ken and Katie

Siricusa Sicily!

 

It seemed like a good idea at the time…….

With winds forecast to be mostly light and variable, we departed Greece in early July, anticipating a mixed bag of conditions on our three-day sail to Italy. Not perfect, but certainly do-able.  If only!

The trip started pleasantly enough, but by the second day, we were caught in a miserable washing machine of cross seas, quartering seas, seas on the nose, and were reefed down in force 7 conditions.  SD was being pounded so much that we finally gave up and hove-to, essentially “parking” the boat for eight hours. When conditions moderated enough to continue, we soldiered on, and at dusk on the third day we spied the summit of distant Mount Etna through the haze. We followed the bright range lights into Sicily’s Siracusa Bay and were anchor down at eleven o’clock that night.  I think we may have managed to brush our teeth before falling into our bunks, but I wouldn’t swear to it. We sailed/motored 290 miles to make good the 267 needed for the rhumb line.

We woke to a calm and sunny morning, and to the pleasant sight of the big catamaran “Endangered Species” anchored nearby, with our friends and fellow Floridians, Rick and Robin aboard. We all dinghied in together for our first look at Italy, coming ashore at a convenient little dinghy tie-up practically underneath the first little bridge to Ortigia.

Full moon over Ortigia

Ortigia, Sircusa’s “old town”, is actually a small island, connected to the mainland by a couple of little bridges, each only about 75 yards long.  Lonely Planet describes it perfectly, so we’ll steal a quote from their guide: “Café tables spill onto dazzling baroque piazzas, and medieval lanes, lined with trattorias and cafes, lead down to the sparkling blue sea. Its magnificent central square, Piazza del Duomo, is one of Sicily’s most spectacular.”  Founded in 738 BC, in its heyday mighty Siracusa was the most powerful city in the ancient world, larger than Athens and Corinth.

In Oritgia’s Piazza del Duomo (Cathedral Square), the Metropolitan Cathedral of the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary was originally a 5th-century BC Greek temple.

 

Marble stones in the floor mark the resting place of several long-gone people entombed underneath.

Ancient Greek ruins, identified as the Temple of Apollo, lie crumbled in the grass at a little intersection in Ortigia, protected by a low wrought-iron fence.  The nearby public market, stretching for several blocks, is a feast for the eyes as well as for the palate. Brightly colored local seasonal fruits, vegetables, and flowers are piled high at the market stalls. Fishmongers call out loudly to passers-by in sing-song Italian, hawking the fish and shrimp, eels, squid, clams, and cockles on their beds of crushed ice, while behind them, men take hefty cleavers to huge tuna and swordfish.

Adjacent stalls offer nuts, herbs, olives and oil, tapenades, sweets, and more. The smiling, energetic “Cheese Man” is a local celebrity; his little shop and sidewalk stall are always busy, with plates of samples to tempt the shoppers. When I asked for a taste of pecorino, he actually made me a little sandwich, and when I departed with over two pounds of a variety of cheeses, he kissed my hand.

“The Cheese Man”

On that first day we were a bit dizzy and wobbly from our passage, having not yet recovered our “land legs”, so we didn’t linger long ashore.  We did stop at a small café for a light bite and a refreshing granita, a cold sweet slushy treat.  Italian is proving to be a cinch after the Greek, because we share the same alphabet, but care has to taken nonetheless. Ken is a genius when it comes to engines, radios, sailing, and electronics, but languages are not his strong suit. To simplify things, I do the ordering, as if Ken took the initiative, he might end up asking not for a granita, but for a granata, which is a hand grenade.

We returned to Ortigia the following morning with our friends, along with crew from another American boat, David, Betty, and Tom, off their motor-sailor “Sundance”. We celebrated David’s birthday with lunch at the tiny (six tables!) “Sicilia in Tavola” trattoria. Since swordfish were currently in season,  SD’s crew feasted on a plate of thick Tuscan spaghetti with swordfish, pine nuts, raisins, and cherry tomatoes.  Delicioso!

Our priority that day was to locate a dentist to deal with a miserable toothache that Ken had developed. The pretty girl at the tourist information office not only found us a nearby English-speaking dentist, she phoned the office and made us an appointment for the same day. We will be forever in her debt!  (Cruiser info re the dentist at the end of this post.)

Dr. Darico Di Paola and his staff were absolutely wonderful. His diagnosis – not so wonderful.  With decay under a five-month-old bridge, Ken needed a root canal and a new bridge, which involved a series of appointments and required that we extend our stay for an extra week.

Cruising in the Mediterranean is all about “weather windows”. Like “making a run for it” when crossing a busy street, cruisers have to be prepared to weigh anchor and beat feet between gales, when the forecast is favorable.  This area of the Med is periodically hammered by the Mistral, a ferocious gale-force wind that blows down from France’s Rhone Valley. We were anxious to take advantage of any friendly weather, but were grateful to have such a prompt and happy solution to Ken’s dental issues, at about one-third of what it would have cost in America. At least we were anchored (read: free!) rather than berthed at the expensive marina.

We took advantage of the opportunity to play tourist. A bus trip to the town of Noto took us through the countryside, which was peaceful if unremarkable, with groves of lemon trees and the ubiquitous silver-green olive trees. In Noto’s old town, astonishing ancient buildings, like huge peach-colored wedding cakes, towered over the central avenue. Impressive!

Noto

Noto

More Noto!

A few days later, back in Siracusa, we walked up to the Basilica of San Giovanni (St. John) one morning to tour the ancient stone catacombs. Fascinating, eerie, and  bit spooky – it was awesome! More than 10,000 people were entombed there at one point, and eventually the alcoves were full, and people had to begin cutting tombs into the stone floor. Tomb raiders over the centuries had made off with all the personal items entombed with the deceased, and when WWII began, the bones were removed to a mass grave so that the catacombs could be used as a bomb shelter. Our guide spoke fluent English, and had tons of interesting factoids and stories. It was cool and haunting, wandering the labyrinth of corridors down there amongst the tombs, and we felt that it was well worth the eight-Euro ticket.

Basilica of San Giovanni

With an eye towards a departure on July 26, we’re busying ourselves planning routes for our westward passages, and Ken has become quite the weather guru, studying multiple local forecasts to decide on our best “window”. We’ve decided to take the route around the south coast of Sicily since it is 40 miles shorter and offers more harbors of refuge than the north coast.

We found a small shop in town to buy “sfuso”, or “loose wine”, sold from vats for as low as 1.3e/liter to fill the empty bottles that we’ve been saving for this purpose. (They also offer 5, 10, and 20-liter bags which they will fill with the wine of your choice.) We sit on the bow in the evenings enjoying this fine local wine, watching the familiar little fishing boats potter around the bay, waving to some of the regulars. The anchorage is home to hundreds of foot-long mullet, which school around the boat and entertain us with Olympic-class leaps from the water, performed for reasons known only to mullet.  Yachts enter and leave the nearby marina, and the setting sun tints Ortigia’s ancient waterfront buildings in soft shades of peach and pink.  

It’s been a great stop! We would be happy to spend more time here, but we want to reach the Canary Islands in September, and with the limited weather windows for heading west, we need to move on.

Ciao for now – K&K     (Cruiser info follows): 

Excellent English-speaking dentist:

Dr. Dario Di Paola,  Corso Gelone 86 (in the “new town” of Siracusa, across from the Jolly Hotel). Phone: 0931 68145 (Melges 24 racer)   

Laundry: several in Ortigia, but we like the Lavanderia in the new town, on the corner of Corso Umberto and Via Filipo Cordova, only one block west of the second bridge. The Italian owner speaks excellent English, and his American wife was a wealth of local knowledge. There is a book swap here.

Tourist info office: Just a few steps across Via Filipo Cordova from the laundry, the lovely girl at this office was a life-saver in finding the dentist, as well as providing bus schedules and fare info. She also has good maps.

Nautica Marine – excellent chandlery near the tourist office mentioned above.

Dinghy landing: Great spot, never crowded: From the anchorage, go under the first bridge, and tie up near the rental boats on left just beyond the bridge. Take care when tying up not to block the tiny channel on the left that leads to a little basin where local boats tie up. It’s recommended that you lock your dinghy; a chain runs along the wall for this purpose. You can also use the boat yard (nearest to the supermarkets) and the Coasta Guardia dock.

If you like classic rock and roll, tune to 103.0

Feel free to contact us for more local knowledge. 

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