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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