Birvidik

You know that uneasy feeling you sometimes get - you can't quite put your finger on it, but something's definitely not quite right. I had that the other Thursday.

We were moored up in Porto Spilia, bows-to the key with the stern tied to a sodding great concrete block and light southerlies forecast. It should have been the cruising idyll personified, but I definitely wasn't happy. To make matters worse my feelings of unease steadily increased over the course of the day, but I was damned if I could work out why. I suspect that it was an accumulation of almost subconscious cues. The air didn't feel quite right, the sky didn't look quite right, the sea state wasn't quite right - I don't know, for all I could tell the local strays might have been having trouble with their sciatica and the seagulls were flying in a foreboding pattern while the crows made those Hammer Horror noises. Whatever it was, I didn't like it.

Usually in these circumstances I keep my feelings to myself. Not being able to give an opinion supported by evidence, I keep shtum for fear of making a complete tit of myself. It's one thing to sagely pronounce "Oo-arr! D'ye see that - a slight mackerel sky accompanied by a faint haze over the hilltops and the wind backing to NE. We're in for a fearful blow from the South, you mark my words Me Hearties!" This sort of thing is very impressive, especially if it comes true.

You're unlikely to earn the respect of big hairy sailors and have the local female population gazing wide-eyed at you with ovaries aquiver if the best you can come up with is "Ooh - I don't know why, but I feel a bit frit".

In the end though I gave in to my inner wuss, blew up the big sausage fender and stuck it on the bow. After that I went round checking and adjusting the lines and positioning anti-chafe. Then I checked all the systems, disconnected the electrics, made sure our masts were out of line with those of the boats either side and finally sat in the cockpit to work myself into a barely disguised lather of apprehension. This behavior did not go unnoticed by Liz and Chris on our boat. Neither did it escape the attention of the skippers of neighbouring boats. Quizzical eyebrows were raised in my direction. I mumbled some pathetic drivel about routine precautions and hid in the saloon.

I should have had the courage of my convictions. The sky steadily darkened into lowering anvil heads. Lightning flashed with increased frequency and thunder growled in the distance. The wind increased and backed to the east. Then it increased again and backed to the north east.

Now Spilia is well sheltered from all directions except one, namely a tiny little 10 degree sector.

From the north east.

So the wind, of course, stayed in the north east and blew up to a nice gale force 8. This built up a substantial seaway of 1 - 2 metre waves, which it proceeded to shove into the harbor. The boats rolled alarmingly from side to side and pitched viciously fore and aft, which made them lurch, snatch and strain at their lines. The waves came straight on the sterns of the boats on our quay, stretching the lines holding them off and surging them perilously close to the rough concrete.

Then the rain started. Not gradually, but straight in at full whack as if someone had emptied a swimming pool over the boat. The scuppers couldn't cope and the side decks filled with water. At times we couldn't see the bow so we had no idea how far off the quay we were. At this point the lightning and thunder were simultaneous and the wind increased again, accompanied by bigger waves and vicious gusts. The highest recorded was 45 knots (severe gale 9). The rain eased but the wind and waves hung on in there.

If we thought we had it bad, our predicament was nothing compared with the boats on the pontoon slightly further down. The wind and waves were hitting them on the beam and they were rolling alarmingly. The shrieks and howls of the wind were occasionally interspersed with the sickening crash of masts clashing. Several boats snapped mooring lines and had to leave the pontoon and circle forlornly through the white water of the bay. Even without their load, the pontoon fixings started to give way and the main section threatened to snap off and drift away with boats still attached to it.

Panos, the berthing master, earned his corn that night. It took him and nine others to restrain the pontoon with extra ropes. Despite this one boat still ended up on the beach. That night, he said afterwards, was the first time he had prayed in twenty years. His brother, Babis, commented that it was only the third time in 36 years working there that he had seen it as bad as that.

After it had been going on for about four hours nerves were getting a little frayed. "Don't worry" I said in a vain attempt to restore morale, "These systems don't last more than a few hours and there's got to be a wind shift soon - it always changes through 180 degrees in these". I looked around to be greeted with looks of suspicious disbelief. In truth, I have to admit that the statement was made more in hope than conviction.

I should have had more faith. The words were hardly out of my mouth when it did just as predicted. In less than a minute the wind fell to flat calm and then blasted in at force 8 from the opposite direction. From this we were well protected and the waves died to almost flat. You could almost hear the collective sigh of relief from the whole bay.

What didn't stop for the next couple of hours was the rain. This didn't discourage the assembled yotties who togged themselves up in foul-weather gear and repaired en masse to Babis' and Panos' restaurant in a state of manic excitement and relief, where they demanded vast quantities of food and even vaster quantities of alcohol.

We, of course, were in the vanguard.

Now about that canal boat.