In the last few months we've been in some trying situations - high winds while docking or our anchor scope swinging us dangerously close to rocks. We get through though just fine and even pat each other on the back for a job well done. Of course with each close call safely behind us, our bravado swells. Wow, aren't we sailors now! No longer amateurs, but true experts at sea.

Until recently, when we were again humbled, and left once more with a sense of the sure magnitude of the sea. We scoffed at the sailor's mantra, "the wind is king". So smart we thought we were - reading the wind changes and predicting the swell movement. No, no, no! And once again we were put in our place.

We arrived to Menorca, from Barcelona, after a peaceful overnight sail. The wind was just right and once the sails were set, we sailed along at a good clip, throughout the evening and night. It was one of our best overnight sails and again we congratulated each other on a job well done. We had chosen the right weather window and had made a perfect passage. As the sun rose, we noticed though that the winds were shifting and the swells increasing from the southwest. As newly, self-proclaimed, brilliant seamen, we decided that the weather forecast must have been "off" and that we would be prudent and head to the north of the island. The Mestral that was predicted (northerly winds passing down through the Pyrenees into the western Med, during the late summer months) had clocked around or had dissipated altogether.

So we headed to the North side of Menorca to Cala Agaiarens to stay clear of the storm. HAH! After an hour or so in a deserted Cala (yes I thought that was a clue, but chalked it up to day sailors leaving for home) the black clouds came in. Then the thunder, lightning and hard rain hit. Well, we can certainly withstand a bit of rain. Then the waves started. Oh, that's a bit rocky, but we'll just batten the hatches and hunker down for this little part of the storm as well.

An hour into it, we thought we'd swallow our large-sized humility pill and run for the hills. We weighed anchor and made a run for it. Just to the opening of the Cala (bay) we hit the real waves. I'm terrible at judging meters but let's just say that, while Steve was holding onto the dinghy lines, hoping our new dinghy wasn't going to pop off the davits, I was attempting to steer around (well up and down really) WALLS of swells. And, as catamarans will do, after each time we crested a wave, we'd fall like an enormous 12-ton belly flop onto the dip of each swell. BAM, BAM, BAM!

OK, so leaving no longer being an option we tuck back into the farthest corner of the Cala for a very long night. We dig the anchor in as best as we can, set the anchor alarm and hope for the best, each of us taking our turn on anchor watch throughout the night - this being especially difficult because there are absolutely no lights anywhere in the Cala to get a bearing. And even worse, we can hear the waves crashing on the beach and the rocks that we are precariously perched between. Ugh...

Morning light finally comes after a sleepless night with the boat rocking and rolling. We fire up the engines, hoping that the walls of waves are no longer at the entrance of our bay. Yes, we can make it but it won't be pretty. So for a couple of hours we bash our way south, to our original destination, Ciutadella. I head below decks and try to keep my head from splitting while Steve punishes himself at the helm with hours of waves crashing over the bow and lashing at him.

Finally at Ciutadella, and as our luck would have it, it was siesta time, with no mariners to help with docking. So, while Steve was spider monkeying between the boat and the dock to try to tie lines, I was, not-so-successfully, trying to keep our stern from banging into the dock (note; thankfully wood docks just crumble from the force of a boat hitting it). But, we finally securely tied her up without too many dings, although sorely in need of some sleep and food - each of us having had about three hours each night for the last two days. Weary and ravenous we quickly as we could, made ourselves presentable and head out.

It was a glorious sight to see once we took the time to take a good look at the majesty of the harbor view. The city's 12th century Cathedral stood at the top of the river's mouth, welcoming us into her port. And once again, like every trying day out here, the next day proves to be more wonderful than you can imagine and reminds us of how very fortunate we are to live this life.

We ended the day by picking up a few postcards and a guidebook, then heading down to the row of restaurants on the quay for some local Chiparones Fritos (fried baby squid), Mejillones a la Marineire (mussels in a rich and spicy tomato broth) and the local favorite, Caldereta de Llagosta (lobster stew). While sipping wine and enjoying our wonderful meal, we browsed through our newly acquired guidebook, which states about The Mestral, ""This sudden wind has caused numerous shipwrecks on the north coast that was christened by the French as 'The coast of death'". Well, I guess we faired better than we could have and we won't ever forget that "The Wind is King".