Aisling I
18 July 2016 | Genoa
11 July 2016 | Genoa Italy
04 July 2016 | Genoa
02 July 2016 | Genoa
25 June 2016 | Porto Azzurro Elba
11 April 2016 | Marina di Ragusa
21 March 2016 | Halifax
01 March 2016
14 January 2016
30 September 2015
25 September 2015 | Crotone Italy
18 September 2015 | Erikoussa
10 September 2015 | Preveza
10 September 2015 | Preveza
24 July 2015 | Preveza
20 July 2015 | Varko Bay
13 July 2015 | Vlicho Bay
09 July 2015
03 July 2015 | Preveza Greece
21 June 2015
An Evening in Serce
13 June 2011 | Off Kusadaci
Bonnie
As a result of the "incident" at the dock, it is early afternoon before we sail away from Marmaris. We could have predicted the weather conditions without even looking at a forecast: almost no wind, and what little wind there is would be on the nose. Our intention is to spend the first night at anchor off the Greek island of Symi- a somewhat risky proposition since, if we are spotted by the coast guard and required to check in to Greece, we will forfeit our Turkish cruising permit and have to purchase a new one at a considerable expense when we re-enter Turkey. Rick argues that since we have no intention of setting foot on Greek soil, it should not be a problem. I worry that the huge Canadian flag on our stern could be a magnet for a zealous Greek official. In the end, it becomes a moot point. The light winds on the nose gradually become brisk winds on the nose and we decide to tuck into Serce Limani.
This long deep bay, roughly 25 miles southwest of Marmaris, is the site of an 11th-century wreck. There is a small restaurant on shore and the proprietor of the restaurant reportedly offers guided tours to Greek ruins nearby. As we enter the bay, we are met by a man rowing a small skiff. Predictably, he tells us that the mooring balls are free if we eat in the restaurant. "How much does it cost to eat in your restaurant?" I ask. "It depends" he says. "If you eat a little, it costs a little. If you eat a lot, it costs a lot." Eventually I manage to extract the information that a meal of fish costs 30 lira and chicken costs 25 lira. This is essential information, since, due to our distraction over the "incident", we have foolishly sailed away from Yacht Marine without visiting the cash machine and have a grand total of 120 lira between us.
Tying up to the mooring ball is a quick and painless process, but things fall apart when we look for a long stern line to be tied to a rock ashore. Still a little disorganized in spite of 10 full days of preparation, we rummage through lockers, find the line, manage to tangle it and when it is finally untangled realize it is not long enough. After a bit more rummaging we find a second line and also manage to tangle that one. Our host, Hassan, is clearly finding our bumbling quite amusing. "Take your time" he says. "I am not in a rush." By the time we have the boat in place, he seems to have decided he likes us, because he tells us that we can have the mooring for free even if we do not eat in the restaurant.
Within minutes, a second skiff approaches, with a man and his young son aboard. The boat is loaded with lovely tablecloths, rugs and shirts. I bargain on a cream tablecloth with delicate blue embroidery and settle on a price of 35 lira. I am feeling very pleased with myself until I realize that I have just bargained away 30% of our available cash! Luckily, Rick finds some euros tucked into the back of his wallet so dinner is still a possibility.
At 7.30, Rick rows us over to the small beach. We walk along a narrow path to the restaurant, underneath a rocky hillside of olive trees, eucalyptus trees and scrubby brush. The sound of bleating goats drifts downhill. A stout woman struggles along the hillside carrying a heavy sack on her shoulder...she seems to be collecting greens.
We step carefully because the path is strewn with goat droppings and cow patties. Or to be more accurate, bull patties, because we can see the bull in a field as we pass. Two puppies dash past us, and there are two more inside the restaurant. They are almost exactly the same size as our dog Shakespeare was the first time we saw him, and for the thousandth time I feel the little ache that arrives when I realize he is gone forever. The puppies gallop across the floor, chasing two kittens that have appeared from the back of the restaurant. It is a veritable menagerie, especially if you count the numerous species of moths and insects that are flying around the restaurant (which does have a grass roof, but does not have walls).
Hassan leads us to a platter of raw fish and we make our choices, then settle at a table overlooking the water to enjoy a cold Efes with a plate of homemade mezzas and delicious coarse bread. Only one other table is occupied, by a group from the UK and Dubai, who are just finishing a two-week charter. The husbands have had a wonderful vacation; the wives, not so much. Two large and persistent moths are determined to land in the hair of the woman from Dubai; there is a wasp in my beer and a huge dragonfly swoops past. A giant, brilliant green, monster-size grasshopper (about three inches long and a dead ringer for the ones the boys in St. Lucia make from palm leaves) lands on the table. There is a puppy under my chair. Rick jumps up and brushes a two-inch centipede off his leg. This is rural dining at its best.
Hassan appears from the back and flicks a switch that triggers a flashing string of Christmas lights framing a Canadian flag in a box. The theme from "The Spy Who Loved Me" blasts from the stereo. I burst into laughter and Hassan is clearly very pleased with himself. Our meals are delicious, served with salad, rice and delicious home-cut french fries, crisp and perfect. The meal ends with a plate of figs, apples and Turkish Delight. "A gift" says Hassan. Thankfully, we have enough money to pay the bill and leave a small tip. "My friends" says Hassan "You are not rich, but you are good people". A true compliment. He invites us to come for tea the next morning, or any time we are in the neighbourhood. "Not for business, not in the restaurant" he says. "In the house, for friendship." We have to leave early the next morning, but perhaps we will be back this way some day.
As we leave the restaurant, the crescent moon is rising over the trees and the strains of "Marcia Alla Turca" follow us along the path. "Oh look" said Rick, "It's the Islamic moon!" Perhaps we are not quite ready to leave Turkey after all.
This long deep bay, roughly 25 miles southwest of Marmaris, is the site of an 11th-century wreck. There is a small restaurant on shore and the proprietor of the restaurant reportedly offers guided tours to Greek ruins nearby. As we enter the bay, we are met by a man rowing a small skiff. Predictably, he tells us that the mooring balls are free if we eat in the restaurant. "How much does it cost to eat in your restaurant?" I ask. "It depends" he says. "If you eat a little, it costs a little. If you eat a lot, it costs a lot." Eventually I manage to extract the information that a meal of fish costs 30 lira and chicken costs 25 lira. This is essential information, since, due to our distraction over the "incident", we have foolishly sailed away from Yacht Marine without visiting the cash machine and have a grand total of 120 lira between us.
Tying up to the mooring ball is a quick and painless process, but things fall apart when we look for a long stern line to be tied to a rock ashore. Still a little disorganized in spite of 10 full days of preparation, we rummage through lockers, find the line, manage to tangle it and when it is finally untangled realize it is not long enough. After a bit more rummaging we find a second line and also manage to tangle that one. Our host, Hassan, is clearly finding our bumbling quite amusing. "Take your time" he says. "I am not in a rush." By the time we have the boat in place, he seems to have decided he likes us, because he tells us that we can have the mooring for free even if we do not eat in the restaurant.
Within minutes, a second skiff approaches, with a man and his young son aboard. The boat is loaded with lovely tablecloths, rugs and shirts. I bargain on a cream tablecloth with delicate blue embroidery and settle on a price of 35 lira. I am feeling very pleased with myself until I realize that I have just bargained away 30% of our available cash! Luckily, Rick finds some euros tucked into the back of his wallet so dinner is still a possibility.
At 7.30, Rick rows us over to the small beach. We walk along a narrow path to the restaurant, underneath a rocky hillside of olive trees, eucalyptus trees and scrubby brush. The sound of bleating goats drifts downhill. A stout woman struggles along the hillside carrying a heavy sack on her shoulder...she seems to be collecting greens.
We step carefully because the path is strewn with goat droppings and cow patties. Or to be more accurate, bull patties, because we can see the bull in a field as we pass. Two puppies dash past us, and there are two more inside the restaurant. They are almost exactly the same size as our dog Shakespeare was the first time we saw him, and for the thousandth time I feel the little ache that arrives when I realize he is gone forever. The puppies gallop across the floor, chasing two kittens that have appeared from the back of the restaurant. It is a veritable menagerie, especially if you count the numerous species of moths and insects that are flying around the restaurant (which does have a grass roof, but does not have walls).
Hassan leads us to a platter of raw fish and we make our choices, then settle at a table overlooking the water to enjoy a cold Efes with a plate of homemade mezzas and delicious coarse bread. Only one other table is occupied, by a group from the UK and Dubai, who are just finishing a two-week charter. The husbands have had a wonderful vacation; the wives, not so much. Two large and persistent moths are determined to land in the hair of the woman from Dubai; there is a wasp in my beer and a huge dragonfly swoops past. A giant, brilliant green, monster-size grasshopper (about three inches long and a dead ringer for the ones the boys in St. Lucia make from palm leaves) lands on the table. There is a puppy under my chair. Rick jumps up and brushes a two-inch centipede off his leg. This is rural dining at its best.
Hassan appears from the back and flicks a switch that triggers a flashing string of Christmas lights framing a Canadian flag in a box. The theme from "The Spy Who Loved Me" blasts from the stereo. I burst into laughter and Hassan is clearly very pleased with himself. Our meals are delicious, served with salad, rice and delicious home-cut french fries, crisp and perfect. The meal ends with a plate of figs, apples and Turkish Delight. "A gift" says Hassan. Thankfully, we have enough money to pay the bill and leave a small tip. "My friends" says Hassan "You are not rich, but you are good people". A true compliment. He invites us to come for tea the next morning, or any time we are in the neighbourhood. "Not for business, not in the restaurant" he says. "In the house, for friendship." We have to leave early the next morning, but perhaps we will be back this way some day.
As we leave the restaurant, the crescent moon is rising over the trees and the strains of "Marcia Alla Turca" follow us along the path. "Oh look" said Rick, "It's the Islamic moon!" Perhaps we are not quite ready to leave Turkey after all.
Comments
| Vessel Name: | Aisling I |
| Vessel Make/Model: | Slocum 43 |
| Hailing Port: | Halifax, NS, Canada |
| Crew: | Rick and Bonnie Salsman |
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Aisling I's Photos - Aisling I (Main)
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During the winter, we babysat Murphy Brown (a lovely poodle that belongs to our friends Wally and Martha) for 10 days. I had some fun capturing her in some of her favourite spots!
8 Photos
Created 16 May 2012
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Pics of Aisling at anchor, up top and down below.
23 Photos
Created 2 November 2008
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About Aisling 1
Who: Rick and Bonnie Salsman
Port: Halifax, NS, Canada
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