CHAPTER THREE

Farewell Europe

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nxious to push onward with our journey of discovery, we bid goodbye to Hola and Corcubion, and ambled down the Spanish coast to Portugal by way of a few easy day trips and one-night anchorages. We lingered a bit in Portugal—it was a pleasure to discover. In Portugal, we discovered Porto, the resort town of Figueira da Foz, and finally Lisbon.

The anchorage for Porto was located in the nearby industrial harbor of Leixoes, and it was here that we skirted an early disaster. Leixoes was a small harbor, and there were several boats anchored there. I suddenly awoke because the boat was not bobbing with the same usual rhythm that I was becoming accustomed to while at anchor. I'm a light sleeper, and such dissonant things always seemed to wake me. A sudden squall with powerful winds had whipped up during the night around 4 a.m. I raised myself on my elbows, peeped through the porthole in our aft sleeping cabin and saw that Cowabunga was racing past other boats and towards the rocky jetty. I was in a terrified panic! I shook Michel awake, and in a flash, we were on deck in the pelting rain, engine roaring, steering Cowabunga clear of the rocks just moments away from certain doom.

We weren't the only ones to avoid disaster that night. Several of us, all having been dragged, were weaving around the harbor at 4 a.m. seeking safer, better-protected spots to re-anchor. Once we got Cowabunga resettled, soaked and with our hearts pounding, we reassessed what happened. Coming on the heels of our anchoring mishap in La Coruña, we again doubted our ability to anchor properly. However, upon closer inspection of this storm, Michel realized that the squalls were coming in from the south, and the harbor wasn't well protected from the weather in that direction. We were fairly comforted that it wasn't entirely due to our lack of anchoring technique, but we nevertheless failed to factor in possible issues when anchoring in that particular harbor. We were further distressed when we realized how close we had come to losing Cowabunga on the rocks. We had only just begun our dream voyage and couldn't believe that all was almost lost right there in Portugal, so close to our starting point in France.

After Porto, we made an unscheduled stop in Figueira da Foz due to engine problems, the first major breakdown of many more to come. Contrary to the disappointing and fairly disheveled industrial harbor of Leixoes-Porto, Figueira da Foz was a pleasant surprise—a quaint and clean summer tourist town.

Portugal of the 1980s was emerging from a long period of dictatorial regimes and was somewhat in the third world pocket of Europe. It still lacked in modern comforts; horse-drawn carts were common in the streets, as were women carrying basket-laden loads on their heads and babies on their hips. We rarely saw any strollers, and we garnered many a curious look as Michel carried Brendan in our backpack-style baby carrier. Cod is the national dish of Portugal, so we also discovered a new odor as street vendors hawked dried and salted cod everywhere.

Once in the harbor of Figueira da Foz, Michel went on an exploratory expedition to find someone who could help us out with our engine. At the small tourist information office in town, he discovered there was a local chapter of the Lions Club, of which Michel was a member back home. Luckily, one of the chapter's members, Mario Cardoza, was a garage mechanic, and he immediately came to our aid. He and his family were most generous and congenial hosts. Aside from competently repairing our engine, Mario took us to his home and insisted that we use the washing machine. They even treated us out to dinner and a tour of the sleepy village in the hopeful midst of transforming to a seaside resort town. Street corner cod filets vendors brushed up against newcomers targeting leisure beach weekends. All this unexpected kindness was just the medicine we needed, and we were grateful for it during the week that we were there to repair our engine.

Our next stop was Lisbon, just a day’s sail down the coast from Figueira da Foz, about 125 miles away. Lisbon was a major gathering spot for cruisers as they regrouped before heading out to various pre-Caribbean destinations like Madeira, the Canary Islands, or the Azores. This wouldn't be the case for us, though, as we planned to continue down the coast to Gibraltar, our final European destination. In Lisbon, we were corralled into the "foreign yacht" harbor, centrally located near the heart of town with about 50 other cruisers of all nationalities.

From our deck in the Lisbon harbor, Sean immediately spied a "train"—actually the metro—and he was anxious to give it a whirl. We sensed that our children were sometimes more irate than they should be, which I think was due to lack of personal, individual attention. It was easy to get too wrapped up in everyday chores, repairs, and the "to-do" list, and the kids could feel that. We needed to take more days off here and there, and devote more time exclusively to them. They needed time in parks, walks on land, and local adventures like discovering a zoo. So for our week in Lisbon, we paid particular attention to this. Sean was thrilled and all smiles with his first train ride.

We already saw changes in Sean and Brendan in just these two months. Sean began to notice coastal landmarks and understand that changes in the wind necessitated maneuvers to modify the sails. He was learning what purpose the ropes (sheets or halyards) served. Brendan, now almost seven months, was still in his own discovery mode of the world. I do wonder, though, if he ever found it strange that the scenery outside was never the same.

From Lisbon, we sailed back into Spain down to Cadiz. We targeted Cadiz mainly as a rest stop to break up the trip from Lisbon to Gibraltar, our next stop, and to prepare ourselves mentally for the infamous currents of the Strait of Gibraltar. The reputation was that the currents changed suddenly and could be erratic. To this day, Cadiz remains most memorable in our minds for another barely averted catastrophe.

We were sailing out of the harbor at sunset for our overnight sail to Gibraltar. For a short trip like this, it was easier to sail at night since we wouldn't be burdened by Brendan's daily routine (bottles, diaper changes).

The boys were playing calmly below, and I was planning to get dinner on once we were underway. As we cleared the harbor and the ocean opened before us, we set the sails and cut the engine. It was choppy with some swell—fairly typical. I took the wheel so Michel could set the wind vane pilot that would steer the boat by itself at the stern of the boat. We had a routine for this, and I assumed he was doing his usual tasks in getting the ropes ready. As I held the course, looking straight ahead, I was awaiting Michel's customary instructions for steering and holding the course. I kept waiting...but he didn’t say anything, which was odd. I finally turned around to see what was going on, and there he was, sprawled out on the back of the boat with a bloodied head.

"Michel!" I yelled.

No answer.

He was unconscious. I had to go to him, but I couldn't just let go of the wheel. If I did, we'd veer off course, the sails would flap around or get caught the wrong way, and even more trouble or damage could ensue. I could see the boom of the mizzen mast flailing about. Due to an oversight, neither one of us had properly tied the mizzen boom down as we usually did, and the choppy swell had sent it on a collision course with Michel’s head!

I finally chose to leave the wheel and rushed to shake Michel and assess his wound, all the while glancing up to keep tabs on our position. He quickly came to and was woozy for a short while, and had a big, bloody bump. Thankfully, there was no need for stitches. I ran back and forth between him and the wheel several times, keeping us right with the wind, while helping him to the cockpit, blotting his bloody head.

"Are you OK?" I repeatedly asked in a panic. "How many fingers do you see?" I waved my index finger in front of his eyes.

"Oui, ça va, je pense," Michel said. Yes, I'll be OK, I think.

We realized how lucky we were that he wasn't knocked overboard and that I might have realized it too late if that had been the case. Later that night, though, when I was off watch and Michel was on, I still wasn't at ease. I worried about a concussion or some other latent damage. But by the next morning, he was back into the swing of things, other than the nasty bump on his head. Now we would remember: check and double check that any possible flying object is always secured in its rightful place. This wasn't news to us, but now we really understood the importance of it.

Onward to Gibraltar, our last stop in Europe and our gateway to Africa!

A little after the noon hour on the day of our arrival, we saw Morocco and the African coast for the first time. It was quite a feeling to be sailing between two continents: Africa to our starboard, Europe to our port. On the marine radio, we were excited to hear ship traffic from Casablanca, Radio Tangier, Tarifa, and Gibraltar. It was clear and sunny with calm blue waters. Perfect. Then suddenly we heard the distinct sounds of choppy water. It sounded as if someone turned on a faucet full force. Looking behind us, we watched the surface ripple suddenly, galloping toward us. It caught up with us, undulated under us, and surrounded us like a pot of boiling water.

So this was the quirky current we had heard of and read about. It wasn't uncomfortable, nor dangerous—just very odd. It was as if a line had been drawn in the sea, dividing calm water from an agitated frontier, creating an inoffensive, almost cute "tidal" wave.

We reveled in the fun of Gibraltar, discovering the Rock for about ten days. It was an unlikely mix of European cultures. Awash in a colorful blend, there were traditional British "bobbies" who directed traffic, veiled Moroccan woman, elegant in their glittery traditional robes, and an eclectic international yachtie crowd docked at the foot of the Rock. I was incredulous of the venerable monument rising right out of the water. It was the real deal, not the Prudential Financial logo I had seen on TV in my childhood days.

We biked to the actual Rock and encountered some of the famous resident monkeys (Barbary macaques), walked the town streets, and witnessed the Changing of the Guard ceremony at the government headquarters.

On one outing Michel earned a well-deserved scolding from one corner constable. He rode past the officer on a bicycle, against traffic on a busy one-way street, with Sean seated in the front child's seat braced behind the handlebars, and Brendan in the baby pack hoisted on Michel's shoulders like a circus-type, human pyramid.

"Tweeeet!" the officer hailed Michel with his whistle. "Do you realize how dangerous your stunt is? And with two young children and limited visibility in such busy automobile traffic, you should know better for everyone's safety," he admonished my wayward husband.

Michel sheepishly admitted to his lapse of good judgement and continued on foot, pushing Sean along on the bicycle and carrying Brendan on his back.

As was becoming our custom, we alternated tourist activities and playdates for Sean and Brendan with grocery shopping and boat maintenance duties. This time I had some housekeeping details to tend to. Brendan was quickly outgrowing his infant sleeping arrangement, and I needed to sew a new lee cloth for his bed. A lee cloth is a canvas that hooks from under the mattress and attaches to the ceiling so he couldn't fall out, especially with the boat in motion. I used a larger version of this canvas for the main cabin couches to give Brendan a safe interior "playpen" area while we were under sail. I also had to make some mosquito nets for our beds, along with Moroccan and Senegalese flags to fly upon our arrival in those countries, as prescribed by international maritime law. Some port authorities could be very put out by a boat's lack of courtesy in neglecting to fly the host country's flag, and they would go so far as to create some genuine red-tape headaches for the offending yacht.

Getting into Gibraltar was easy and straightforward; getting out was another story. Due to the unpredictable currents, it was important to time an entry or departure from Gibraltar according to the tide.

For our departure, we thought we had timed it right for the outgoing tide, but we learned otherwise. We kept spinning our wheels, trapped, unable to make any headway out. Finally, after a good eight hours of basically treading water, the Rock was still grandly displayed before us, just as it was when we had set out that morning. We gave up and sailed across the water to the African continent, to the independent and isolated enclave port of Ceuta, which borders Morocco. Although we could still see Gibraltar across the Strait in the distance from the harbor of Ceuta, the day didn't seem as futile if we entered a different harbor for the night.

The next day, we carefully re-read the nautical instructions that gave explicit descriptions—almost to the exact times and distances from the coast—of how the current could change with an outgoing tide, and that one should sidle up to a parallel course depending upon the tidal shifts. We had previously studied this and didn't exactly "pooh-pooh" the information, but we didn't realize how precise it was or that it would have behooved us to follow the instructions to the letter (and to the minute). We performed our second attempt flawlessly. Michel deftly navigated our course, orchestrating our maneuvers and syncing our path with the predicted shifts in the current. The Strait spat us out, and we finally said goodbye to Europe. We turned to face Africa and my, what a feeling that was! We were invigorated, yet slightly uneasy as we headed into the unknown: new territory, new languages, new cultures.

Although we had read a lot of yachties’ accounts of sailing to Morocco and heard the wonderful tales of others who spent considerable time there, Michel harbored some hesitations—perhaps even some prejudices—given France’s long and tumultuous colonial history in North Africa. Michel's own family history had been affected by the Algerian war for independence since his father had been a combatant in the war. He had been a career officer in the Gendarmerie, the militarized branch of the French police. Michel wasn’t sure what to expect in Morocco, or how he would be treated as a Frenchman.