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.
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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