Birvidik

.....run in circles, scream and shout.

Well, we're back in the Ionian, having completed a 500 mile dash back from Croatia via the East coast of Italy, back across the Adriatic to Corfu and then down to Lefkas. Uncharacteristically this year we had a considerable number of longer trips, harbours being few and far between and there being reasonably large expanses of water to cross. Seventy five nautical miles is a long way when you're travelling at cycling pace.

A favourite question asked by non-sailors runs along the lines of "What was your most frightening experience?" They are frequently surprised by the answer. They usually expect some harrowing tale of survival tactics in storm force winds and mountainous seas miles away from land and shelter.

In fact, our truly frightening moments have never been in tempest conditions on the open sea. There are two main reasons for this.

The first, and most important, is that we don't go out in conditions like that. We don't even go out in moderate conditions "What! Go out in a predicted force five? Are you completely insane, man?" Ok, weather forecasting is not an exact science, and you do occasionally get caught out in slightly inclement weather, but this is more uncomfortable than frightening. This is due to the second reason: out at sea you've got plenty of room in which to make cock-ups and then some pathetic attempts to rectify them.

No - the really scary moments take place in restricted spaces where your breathing space available to get yourself out of trouble when things go tits-up is measured in seconds, minutes at best. You know the sort of places - anchorages, harbours and marinas; the sort of places that are quaintly (and frequently inaccurately) known as havens.

When we started this sailing lark we were under the same misapprehension. We thought that going out to sea would scare us witless (well, it rhymes with 'witless') and that once tucked up in a haven we'd be cosy, safe and secure.

Au contraire.

Havens are littered with hazards, all in close proximity - other boats, rocks, rough concrete quays, semi submerged breakwaters, old anchors, mooring lines, swimmers, bloody jet-skis, fishing boats, sodding great ferries and Italians in high speed motor boats. In addition, they are usually so small and so overcrowded that manoeuvering into the minute available spaces is sphincter-twitching at the best of times and produces a state of gibbering collapse if there is any wind or current about. Moving boats about in places like this in heavy weather is to be avoided at all costs. Any unexpected occurrence or breakdown under these circumstances invites immediate disaster.

Which leads us on to the point of today's entry.

We intended to leave Gouvia at sparrowfart for the ten hour trip to Lefkas. Apprehension built as we prepared to leave our berth, hopefully without scything through the forest of mooring lines with our prop. By a combination of engine, bow thrusters, pulling on ropes and pushing with sticks we managed to extricate ourselves without mishap and heaved a sigh of relief. Liz started to motor down the aisle while I tidied the ropes and brought in the fenders.

At which point the engine stopped.

Just like that.

This left us at the mercy of wind and current and Birvidik started to drift aimlessly toward the expensive boats on our starboard side. One of the marina staff had just passed us in a RIB and was heading out of the marina entrance. I tried to call him up on the radio, employing my best, calm, orderly radio procedure. He took no notice of it. With hindsight, it obviously didn't sound serious to him. He only heard the tone of the transmission and not the content. What I should have done was shouted in a high pitched hysterical screech and started screaming, sobbing, begging and banging the microphone repeatedly on the binnacle. Then he'd have thought it was serious. I tried again, persisting with my very British sang-froid, but to no avail.

At this point Liz lost patience with my starched-shirt efforts. She scrabbled around in the cove locker for our compressed air foghorn, pressed the button on the top and gave five loud blasts. Well, she would have done had she grabbed hold of the foghorn instead of the spray can of WD40. After I, the radio and most of the cockpit had been liberally doused in petroleum based corrosion inhibitor she found the foghorn and attracted the attention of the marinheiro. She also woke up the entire marina. Bleary-eyed yotties stuck their heads out of hatches, wondering what the hell was going on. Those on boats immediately downwind of Birvidik recognised their predicament and rushed on deck in various states of undress, ready to fend off. Not a pretty sight.

Luckily, fending wasn't necessary as the RIB came back and towed us to a quay just outside the marina where I set about trying to work out what had gone wrong. If a diesel engine fails it's usually fuel starvation, blocked air feed or loss of compression. None of these seemed to fit the bill. Most of them are characterised by a gradual onset. Fuel starvation usually involves the engine hunting, increasing and losing revs until it stops. Restricted air has similar symptoms accompanied by dark black smoke. Loss of compression is usually preceded by progressive difficulty in starting, which had not been evident. It can occur suddenly and catastrophically, but this is usually accompanied by a loud bang followed by a sound as if someone's thrown a handful of nuts and bolts in the engine.

The sudden stop made me think first of an electrical fault, but I dismissed that, having always been told that marine diesels only need electricity for starting - once running they can cope with complete electrical failure and keep going. Besides, all the warning lights were glowing cheerfully and the audible alarm was screeching away nicely.

Then I twigged it. Older diesels were stopped by a decompression lever. More modern ones have a solenoid that opens a valve and lets fuel through. Cut off the power to this solenoid and the fuel valve slams shut. Which is what had happened. The engineer who had serviced the injectors a few years ago had trodden on the electrical harness and broken the locking ring. Engine vibration had gradually loosened the connections until it cut off the power to the solenoid. A quick reconnection and a lash-up with a piece of string to stop it happening again and we were off, only about an hour late.

The whole episode was far more nerve-wracking than two days prior to that when we left Italy bound for Corfu with an ominous looking thunderstorm in the offing. Mind you we did wait until the waterspout that had been hanging about outside the harbour had dissipated before we cast off. Those things have some serious winds in them.