It was a pattern oft repeated, every time we couldn’t sail because we had decided to undertake a maintenance task, the wind would shift in our favour, every time we could, it would set firmly and forcefully against us.
In the end we decided to go even if the winds were adverse, as long as they were not too strong.
Our route was 30 miles east to the Cabo de Gata and, once round this Cape with its stormy reputation, which for those not familiar with this part of the world is the bootom right hand corner of Spain) we would head North East for 90 miles, past the ancient City of Cartagena round Cape Palos and into the inland sea, the Mar Menor. Our goal was the Balearics some 100 miles or so further north.
Ye famous Cabo de Gata
It quickly became evident that we needed to use the engine as soon as we got out to sea, and once started it was to run non-stop for 27 hours as we battered head on into sea and winds under mainsail and engine.
We had completed much of the journey and were about 20 miles or so south of Cabos de Palos and Cartagena when I observed on radar at around 2.00am in the morning a number of ships a mile or two distant travelling back and forth. Fishing boats I thought, - better watch out and keep clear as they pay only lip service to COLREGS. (Collision avoidance regulations at sea).
After 10 minutes or so the VHF squawked into life “This is Spanish Warship 101, would the vessel heading north east at 5 knots in position “so and so” come in please?” I looked at our position on the GPS as the course and speed were spot on. The position was ours too. But what did they want with us? I decided to do the only logical thing and ignored them. The VHF repeated its request more insistently this time in both Spanish and English and there was now no possibility of a mistake - it was definitely us.
Reluctantly I acknowledged their message and identified us and whereupon we were promptly and politely told to alter course due East for 6 miles as we were in the middle of their submarine exercises. We meekly obeyed although I must confess to resuming our original course a mile or so early as a silent protest at being diverted in international waters. Hornblower would have handled it quite differently I am sure. Quite educational really to learn that the Spanish have at least 101 warships and an exercised submarine!
The Mar Menor is entered by a mile long canal dredged to a depth of 4 metres and entry necessitates passing under a lifting bridge which is opened once every two hours during daylight hours. We arrived with 45 minutes to spare and footled around awaiting the bridge opening. (See earlier blog for a full definition of footling.)
In middle footle we briefly ran aground. I couldn’t believe it! Our brand new instruments were showing 10 metres of water which came down suddenly to 6 metres and then we touched. Somewhat shocked we retreated to deeper water and pondered the contours of the sea bed that shallows from 10 metres to nothing in the blink of an eye. But more of that later.
The bridge opened and we passed under it into the Mar Menor. Once through I uttered the fateful words “What a cracking engine! 27 hours and it hasn’t so much as missed a beat.” Whereupon I switched it off for some peace and quiet. An hour later as we prepared to anchor in the lee of one of the beautifully desolate islands in the Mar Menor I tried to start the engine but it remained resolutely lifeless.
Trying to get the engine going!
We anchored under sail, reawakening long unused skills that had lain dormant since my early days of sailing. All went well and we safely anchored (after the mandatory footle to find the best place!).
Six weeks and we were finally out of Almerimar; we enjoyed a chilled beer in the cockpit and as we watched the sun go down we reflected it was good to be free because we had been starting to go stir crazy stuck in the marina.
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