CHAPTER FOUR

Casablanca and Moroccan Charm

L

anding in Africa was another first for us—a new continent.

Not knowing what to expect, many of my night watch hours were spent imagining what might await us, all framed within the indelible images from the film “Casablanca,"—the stuff of legends. Never in my wildest dreams did I ever imagine setting foot there. Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman, and a place where "a kiss was just a kiss" danced in my brain.¹

My nostalgic reverie was arrested by the reality of sailing into a filthy and polluted harbor. Tar and fuel-covered wharfs were part of a mosaic of decrepit buildings, a few half-sunken vessels, a hodge-podge of ragged stray cats and dogs, and a small posse of fishermen whiling away the time. It was eerie and somewhat void of life, yet distinct with telltale signs of a Casablanca from the past.

Having arrived in the early afternoon, much of the rest of the day was spent hunting down the proper offices and authorities to fulfill our entry formalities. On the move now for three months, we were getting the hang of how to fulfill these requirements when entering a new country. Every country had its own particular procedures of what paperwork needed to be completed and how. In general, there were customs, immigration, and sometimes health and agriculture regulations to attend to. Sometimes we had to procure a visa prior to arriving, and sometimes they would issue it on the spot.

The procedure in Casablanca turned out to be tedious, and was made even more unpleasant by a customs officer’s insistence that we offer him a bottle of whiskey when he came on board and spied our stash purchased in Gibraltar. The word out on the cruising circuit was that whiskey was a very useful currency in Brazil for an exchange of services, so we had bought twelve bottles for later on in our trip. This Moroccan officer was blatant with his request, and Michel respectfully refused to surrender a bottle. There is a fine line between bartering for services and caving in to bribes, and Michel finessed his way through with a straight moral compass.

At this point we played the "American" card. Michel pointed out that since our boat was of American registry, as signified by the American flag in our rigging, the official should bear in mind that we would not hesitate to enlist the assistance of the American consulate on our behalf. Although the officer threatened us with "trouble and complications" if we didn't give him what he wanted, he eventually backed down. Later when Michel was in the harbor customs office for more paperwork, the same official asked once again for some whiskey, this time right in front of his superior. Again, Michel refused and the subject was laid to rest. Michel's systematic refusal to pay bribes most likely cost us in the form of a few extra hours of useless waiting and aggravation as officials invented on-the-spot bureaucratic complications. But within the cruising world, we were aware of the "trickle-down" effect that our actions and behavior could produce for others. Giving in to the culture of bribery wouldn't do any favors for sailors who came after us.

Anxious to get on land, we spent our first evening in the Medina quarter, a lively contrast to the forsaken harbor. We weren’t disappointed. The Medina bustled and bartered, with gritty streets and glittery mazes while whining traditional strains of Arab music called people to prayer. Handicapped and mutilated men, women, and children languished throughout the streets with outstretched hands. Vendors hawked wares in labyrinths of stalls and souks, grouped by trades: tailors, weavers, fruit and vegetable sellers. A curious parade of veiled women passed while balancing trays of flatbread dough on their heads, and then scurried into sunken peephole entrances. Thoroughly intrigued, we stooped to look in and beheld underground, centuries-old, wood-fired ovens—community ovens for baking household bread.

Obviously Westerners, we stood out like coarse threads within this finely woven tapestry. We elicited many a stare, especially with Brendan bouncing in his backpack. Sean was a magnet (dare I say chick magnet?) as women were drawn to his deep auburn hair, reaching out to touch it. One woman approached us and cradled Brendan’s bare feet in her hands, worried that he would catch cold. For us, this October evening was warm.

As we meandered in the lively confusion, the stares melted into smiles, hellos, oft-spoken French, and invitations to taste tangerines and breads, or just talk. Brendan couldn’t get enough of all the sights. He sat ramrod straight in his pack, wide-eyed, taking it all in. Sean was a trooper, carrying on as we walked a lot. Being only three, however, he suddenly had the urge to pee. There, standing before a vendor’s stall and a bakery, we were at a loss! Before we had time to figure something out, a gentleman behind the stall heard Michel and I debating the issue, and he suddenly volunteered a solution, whisking Sean away to a building just across the way. By the time we realized what had happened and began to panic, the man returned with a smiling Sean in his arms. Intrigued, we peppered Sean with our questions as to what their private living quarters were like. Relieving himself, it seems, was no big deal. He just aimed for "a hole in the ground."

Our stay in Casablanca was unfortunately brief, having boxed ourselves into a tight timeline to be in Dakar by Christmas. Although it was only the end of October at this point, we still had much sea to cover with intended stops in Agadir, Morocco, and the Canary Islands before arriving in Senegal.

After a few wonderful days of true "kid time" in Casablanca, involving parks, Moroccan sweets, and a café or two, we left without incident. The authorities duly and politely stamped our exit papers (knowing once and for all they wouldn’t get our whiskey), and no ocean counter currents hindered our departure. The sail down the coast was a welcomed downwind leg, with striking scenery. This was the extreme western edge of the Sahara Desert, and it was incredible to see the sand dunes spilling into the edge of the sea. I kept expecting Lawrence of Arabia to come galloping down a crease in the dunes, on his majestic mount and enveloped by his flowing robes. The sails began to take on an orange hue as red sandy dust accumulated in the folds of our sails and canvas covers. The sun was sometimes even veiled by an orange-red pall cast by the dust-laden desert horizon.

Nestled at the foot of Morocco's Atlas Mountains, about 315 miles south of Casablanca, lies Agadir. Rebuilt after the original city was mostly flattened by a catastrophic earthquake in 1960, it is now a winter tourist destination. But in 1982, there were only a few hints of what it would become in the future. There was no pleasure craft marina then, so we sailed into a dirty harbor that reeked of rotten fish, thanks to a sardine processing facility situated right on the wharf. This rendered the water into a mass of smelly goo as the waste was just dumped into the harbor. Cowabunga was rather pitiful, instantly encased in this gunk, and the hull became outlined with a yellow greasy film. The smell was something akin to that of oil lingering in the kitchen from a deep-fried meal the night before—only much more pungent. I had to cover my nose so I could fall asleep at night.

Belying this initial repelling impression, however, was the extreme generosity, courtesy, and genuine friendliness of the locals. They wanted to tell us about their city, their culture, their religion, their customs, their language. The post office attendant bid Michel to share tea with him (not an easy feat for Michel since he really dislikes tea!) while he waited for a phone line to become available. Someone in the harbor lent Michel a scooter to pick up a load of tangerines. A shoe cobbler in the open-air market repaired Michel’s broken flip-flop for a pittance. All this took Michel off guard and melted away his hesitations and admitted prejudices. We were won over by these gentle, sincere people. Morocco seduced us.

With our load of tangerines (and definitely no sardines), we headed out for the Canary Islands, as well as—unintentionally—our first major storm since leaving France. With an average wind speed of 50 knots, or about 60 mph, this tempest was nothing to sneeze at. The sea was huge, but rather than high cresting, foamy waves that would have normally been the case in such a storm, the sea was an expansive, oddly impressive swell, with a volume and height the likes of which I had never seen. Surprising myself, I wasn’t as scared as I’d thought I might be. Most likely because the sea wasn't in a frenzy—although I was definitely nervous! I was annoyed with Michel because he just went to our bunk to sleep it off, figuring there was nothing we could do other than wait it out. He was right, but still, how could he just sleep through all that?

Sean was a bit seasick at first, but not afraid. Brendan was more annoyed that he kept getting knocked down in his play area. I found it interesting that neither Sean nor Brendan ever got seasick prior to learning how to walk. Once they were walking, though, they both had rare, occasional bouts of seasickness. I attribute this to the fact that their sense of equilibrium must not have been well established, and thus seasickness didn’t affect them until their bodies had a real sense of gravity and balance.

The next morning, after the storm abated, I couldn’t get over the lingering height and volume of the swells. I popped my head outside the companionway to gauge the situation and saw a cargo ship nearby. A mountainous swell towered above us, the cargo teetering on the top of the rolling wave. Then it slid down into the trough of a vast valley below before we, in turn, rolled and shifted up to the top. It seemed like a slow-motion roller coaster or the movement of swimming pool water during an earthquake. It was made of exaggerated proportions, something one might see in a cartoon. Having been blown off course for 24 hours, we were able to verify our position through VHF radio contact with the cargo and got back on track to the Canary Islands.

We knew we couldn’t do the Canary Islands justice with our time constraints, so we concentrated on just one of the Spanish archipelago’s seven islands: Lanzarote, a true surprise. Austere and captivating with its black volcanic desert beauty, there were miles of black sand, hardened lava fields, and spectacular vistas. There were even camel caravans for tourist promenades and curious vineyards that peppered the landscape.

After a quick restocking of provisions on the nearby island of Gran Canaria, we trekked onward for the week-long sail to Dakar, Africa's westernmost point on the Atlantic coast.

It was still early in our adventure, and Michel and I were still learning things about the boat, navigating as a team, determining a good system for our watches, dealing with stress, and adjusting anchoring tactics. My stint on night watch was always a good period of "down time," to read and gather my thoughts after a busy daily schedule. Cliché as it may seem, the starry night sky was awe-inspiring. Far from city lights, total blackness enveloped everything, and I often contemplated this phenomenon. It was truly like looking at a planetarium dome, only this was the real deal.

The hardest part of being on watch was staying awake. Then of course once off watch and in bed, I was so eager to grab those precious hours of rest that it was hard to fall asleep. One evening, I had finally fallen asleep after Michel took over watch duty. Being in this pre-digital music era of the 1980s, he was listening to our Walkman with his headphones. Suddenly I awoke to agonizing groans and short intermittent yelps. Worried, I quickly popped my head out of the hatch.

"Michel, what's wrong?" I said.

"I'm just singing. Why?"

"You scared me half to death. I thought you were in pain!"

His singing with the Walkman was not like singing in the shower.

The boys were growing and changing, and so our daily routine evolved. When we first set sail from France, Sean was edging out of nap time, but it was still a part of Brendan's routine, and that structured the whole family's day. Brendan was also quickly rolling through his baby stages: new teeth, learning to crawl, exploring in and around the boat—prompting us to stay one step ahead of him in installing safety measures. He was also beginning to assert himself with determination, long memory, impatience, whereas Sean was becoming a social chatterbox and a promising fisherman. He had just recently caught his first fish and was duly proud.

Our deadline to make it to Dakar had been reliant on obligations to meet friends there from France, and we found a valuable lesson in this: Don’t make plans for specific dates too far in advance. It was the end of November, and our timeline to be in Dakar had restricted us too much. Too many unknowns can and do come into play when sailing, and we needed to learn to give a wider berth to those eventualities. No sooner had we left Gran Canaria, still motoring out of the harbor channel and setting our sails, when the engine quit. Permanently. We had no time to go back and deal with the problem, so we just set the course for Dakar and decided to deal with it when we arrived.