Birvidik

You know, I'm starting to take all this just a little bit personally.

Gulluk Korfezi is a large bay indented into the Turkish coast, scattered with what promised to be sheltered anchorages and harbours. We made our way along the north coast via a couple of anchorages that seemed, at first, to live up to expectations. Until the night that is. The winds around here are supposed to have a thermal component and to peak in mid afternoon and die off at night. Well, they peaked at mid afternoon alright, but resolutely refused to die off at night, gusting strongly until about six in the morning when they took a break to gather their strength for the next day's onslaught.

The winds are hot; it feels as if someone has just opened the door on a gigantic fan-assisted oven. This, combined with the fierce sun managed to produce ambient daytime temperatures in the mid 40s. This combination has a desiccating effect. Despite drinking around 7 litres of water each per day we were still dehydrated, producing tiny amounts of dark, mahogany-coloured urine. You didn't really want that much detail, did you. We had visions of a local fisherman coming across Birvidik drifting aimlessly like the Marie Celeste, its spectral, mummified crew sitting round the cockpit table staring sightlessly at an empty water bottle; their shrivelled, wrinkled skins tanned like old leather armchairs.

We ventured further into the gulf, searching for that elusive shelter, meeting force 7 winds off several of the capes, and eventually motored into Asin Limani at the head of the bay. This is a picturesque little harbour, protected by Byzantine breakwaters and towers, overlooked by the ruins of ancient Iassos. It also had the added attraction of water taps on the quay. We were by now down to our 20 litre emergency backup jerry can. We dropped the stern anchor and moored bows to.

The wind, characteristically, blew strongly on the beam and slewed Birvidik over, bring her bow perilously close to the concrete quay. We pulled in on the stern anchor and put out lines from both sides to stop her moving sideways. This seemed to do the trick and we entered smug mode and sat in the cockpit surveying our handiwork. Poseidon obviously took umbrage at this hubris and conjured a large swell out of nowhere which proceeded to make the boat pitch up and down, putting extra strain on the stern anchor and pounding the bow perilously close to the quay (again). We slacked off the bow lines and pulled up on the stern line to take us further off. This did the trick, but you now needed to be an Olympic long jump contender to get on or off the boat.

Never mind, it seemed to do the trick and the wind and swell even died off early evening, and remained absent the next morning. We took advantage of this to do shopping and ruin visiting. We returned to the boat, planning to go out for a well deserved meal that evening. Liz went off for an extended swim and Bob relaxed in the cockpit with some penny-dreadful novel. This relaxation lasted for all of an hour and a half.

There was no wind at all, and no swell. Flat calm. Bob laid the book down, closed his eyes and savoured the moment; the soft lapping of the water, the calls of the kingfishers as they swooped over the harbour edge and the gentle rocking of the boat. In less than five seconds his idyll was rudely shattered. The Gust From Hell appeared out of nowhere. It hit the boat on the beam at about 35 - 40 knots, rolling the boat over by about 45 degrees and tipping Bob onto the cockpit floor. The wind generator screamed and the sunshades cracked like whips. The contents of shelves threw themselves on the floor and lay higgledy-piggledy all over the saloon and aft cabin. After about 15 seconds of this the stern anchor gave up the unequal struggle and the boat lurched forwards and crunched sickeningly into the rough concrete quay. Why does this always happen on rough concrete quays and never on nice rubber-fendered pontoons?

Bob leapt to his feet, uttered several seamanlike incantations ("What the F...?"), started the engine and put the boat astern against the bow lines to take her off the quay. Just as he did this, the wind disappeared as suddenly and as unexpectedly as it had arrived. The least it could have done was to have said goodbye. The whole episode has lasted less than a minute. Bob, however, was still in a state of jittery, swivel-eyed nervous expectation when Liz got back to the boat. The gust must have been incredibly localised as she had not felt anything and she was just on the other side of the small harbour.

We pulled up on the stern anchor, but no longer had any faith in it. That put the block on the evening meal out. We cast off and got the hell out of there. Just as well as it turned out. When we lifted the stern anchor it was apparent that the harbour floor was very soft, runny mud. As the anchor came up the mud just ran off it. Any decent blow would have pulled it through and we'd have head-butted the quay again. We left the harbour and anchored round the corner into a large bay with plenty of swinging and dragging room. Hardly had we dropped the anchor and checked it by reversing against it at 1000 revs when the wind came up again, gusting to 30 - odd knots from different directions.

Sod this - we're off to a marina for a couple of days.