Porquerolles
10 July 2008
TUESDAY 1ST JULY 2008 I was woken sharply in the dawn, it was not the early sun shining onto my face as I slept in the cockpit that woke me, but rather the changed movement of the boat, the wind had shifted abruptly to the east and increased to force 4 to 5. Motoring out of the bay into the open sea found No Rush in short steep rolling seas, she was pitching like a demented rocking-horse, It seemed meaningless sailing that day, with both the wind and rolling seas heading us. We still find it is hard to adjust, and constantly have to remind ourselves that this is not a two-week holiday. With the excuse that the batteries needed charging for the fridge, and more important, to have cold beer, we headed back to our idyllic anchorage for some serious snorkelling.
WEDNESDAY 2ND JULY 2008 it was one of those fleeting serendipitous moments, early morning, with the promise of another perfect day as the first rays of the rising sun burnished the bay with a golden glow. To me it sums up the magic of sailing, the setting off on passage and the run ashore at the end as long as I know there is another passage in the offering. The wind was still from unfavourable direction but forecasted to be no more than force 3, all day it steadfastly refused to turn to a more favourable angle, leaving us to motor to our next destination, one of the largest Islands of the Iles d'Hyeres commonly referred to as just Porquerolles.
AFTER EIGHT WEEKS ON REMAND WE HAVE FINALLY BEEN RELEASED.
10 July 2008
MONDAY 30TH JUNE 2008, After all the pre-emptive maintenance of the previous eight weeks No Rush is finally fettled and ready to go. It felt wonderful to be at sea again. That moment when, after departure, you can turn back and see nothing but the empty sea and the retreating land and soon, you know there will be nothing, from that moment I feel beholden to no one, responsible only to myself, and dependent only to No Rush. There are no Tax Assessors at sea, no Accountants, no Lawyers, no Stockbrokers, no Bank Managers; those were the youthful dark-suited creatures I have left behind.
What little wind there was that morning was coming from the harbour entrance, so we needed to motor up the channel and out to sea, casting off the lines, pulling in the fenders we navigated our way out into the bay, which, this morning was a pussy cat. There was scarcely a ripple, once in the outer channel we turned her bows to the wind and letting the motor idle as we hoisted the main. Putting the throttle forward, the red ensign now battered from all the Mistral gales lifted at the backstays. We were leaving with the excitement on another adventure beginning as the boat gathered speed. The sails sheeted in tight, flapped desultorily. Passing the fairway buoy, we let the wind belly the sails, throttling back on the old smoker, allowing the sea breeze to share the engines load, the bow dipped to the first real wave and shred of white foam spattered back on No Rush gunwales. Once clear from all shipping in Marseille harbour we silenced the motor, silencing our world to everything except the sound of the water, sails and ropes. No Rush heeled to the wind, and I felt her come animate as the tiller stiffened in my hand, she was enjoying herself now and I could fill her urge to turn her bows towards the open sea and sail far away.
All my earlier hallucinations had vanished with the dawn, as No Rush hissed in the water, smashing the waves, creaming them back and driving through the swell like a thoroughbred. It was a gentle breeze, force 2 or 3 just enough for our first sail this year, and just enough to break some water across our bows; this was sailing at its best, sun, and wind, fast, wet and exhilarating. We had made more friends back at Port-Saint-Louis in the last eight weeks, than in the eight years back home, but there was no regrets leaving, we were free, free from all the bureaucracy back home and the lack of commonsense from the ministers that were either once barristers or flat mates. All this had dropped astern like sea-anchors cut adrift. At last, I was sailing the blue seas, with salt in my socks and master of the good ship No Rush.
That evening found us in an idyllic anchored with a long stern line ashore to a mooring ring let into the rock in Port Miou. Port Miou is in an old quarry that is no longer worked, formerly the quarry provided a hard white stone that was exported all over the Mediterranean as far afield as Egypt, where it was used in construction of the Suez Canal. As the wind dropped away for its evening calm, we both dived into the cooling water of breathtaking clarity, cooled by the freshwater springs flowing into it. That evening we drank and dined in the cockpit, the only sounds were from the daredevil teenagers diving some 20 or 30 metres into the water from the surrounding cliffs, thoughts. There was none, nothing could meddle with our total absorption in the beauty of the scenery, a perfect end to our fist days sailing. With the knowledge that our anchor was holding was all the insurance we needed for a relaxed nights sleep, rocked under the stars by the gently swell that sleeked into the bay.
CABIN FEVER
13 June 2008
Phil
FRIDAY 13th JUNE 2008 Things at Port-St Louis have not changed; we are still ringing dust from our socks. The engine parts never arrived from their sightseeing trip around Paris, and the craning back of the engine has yet again been delayed another week. If that was not enough, it had started to rain again; it was once a novelty, listening to the water drumming on No Rush's coach-roof, as it gurgled down her scuppers. The wind howling through the boatyard, slapping halliards noisily against the masts, the pleasurable treat to fall asleep in ones bunk at night hearing the wind whistling through the rigging as it played its many tunes, like an rock-band of penny whistles being blown from the wrong end, this was now affecting our minds, like a slow Chinese torture.
The realisation that we were both suffering from cabin fever was when I noticed Rambo sharpening his spear-gun and knifes from the cockpit with that look of mischievousness in his eyes. Hiding these objects for our wellbeing, I prescribing a long bicycle ride, which found us the next day with the sun on our backs and a northerly gale still blowing, ridding the 8Ks to the beach, it was a hard and long trip, just what the Doctor had ordered, only having 16 inch wheels, you had to pedal like crazy. Even so, we were overtaken by a French man, from his handle bars was hanging onions and garlic, he was in his late 90's , the splitting image of Pressures, the caricature from Lord or the Rings.
The fever had affected our minds from the many days stuck in the cabin, and with our eagerness to be suddenly untamed and free; we had forgotten to take any drinks, food, swimming costumes, or our digital cameras. Turning out our pockets, we found that we had just enough Euros for a pint to wash the sand from our dry mouths, at Port Napoleon on our way back. Luckily being Thursday, it was happy hour, now our sprits where running high, from the thought that we could administer more than just one round. That evening, with the low diminishing sun shinning through the amber liquid as we upended the pints to our lips and letting it bobble down our throats in one swig. 'Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh That's got rid of the taste of the sand' said Ray, holding the pint glass dramatically at arms length, making certain that he had slurped every sing drop, while still trying to gargle the last of the residue that was by chance still in his mouth. 'It's your bloody turn Cousteau, and Christ sake bloody hurry; I need another bloody pint to quench my bloody thirst'. Well maybe I do not quite have the right French translation, but you get the general jest. The performance had gone unnoticed by the group of German Yachties standing at the bar, appearing bemused at this evening's ritual from two Brits. Always one to maintain national prestige, I shouted across to the young French girl behind the bar, holding the two large emptied glass's in outstretched arms, the same glass's that we had not yet paid for, and had only that minute been pulled. 'Madame duex biere S'il vous plait'. Sliding the only 20 euro's we had, past the Bombay-mix and peering eyes. 'Here's-to-it Rambo, get your old smacker's round that one you old sea dog' I said thrusting him the glass.
The day had produced some memorable sights of this wild region. Between the main course of the river and its tributary, is overgrown with jungle-like trees and vegetation, divided up by shallow salt lakes of mud and sand brought down by the Rhone. This has still not deterred man from draining the land and washing the impregnated salt with fresh water, diverted from the river for growing crops. Much of the reclaimed land has been used for rice fields, which produces over 120,000 tons a year, nearly enough to supply France's needs. The wildlife was abundant; especially as back in 1928 the government declared a large part of it a nature reserve thus preserving this unique environment and is now the last European breeding grounds of the greater flamingo. Seeing the famous, white Camargue horses, a tough, sure-footed species used by local cowboys, the gardians, to get around this marshy land. The horses are born brown, but turn white by their fourth year, and the pink flamingos were virtually everywhere and seemed unconcerned with our presence. I hope that the next time we update the blog we should be back on the water and sailing off into the sunrise, feeling the rhythm of the sea once again beneath our keel.