The lovely La Gomera

With Love from La Gomera...

It seems like absolutely ages since we last added to the blog. Perhaps it is? I’ve calculated that we’ve been on the road for two and a half months now but it seems like an eternity… in a good way you understand.

Chapel in Lanzarote

The stainless leg for the water generator worked out in the end. It’s a shoddy job but it will do. What can you expect when there is not a flat surface in the whole shop and the man does not possess a set square? My Spanish was most definitely pushed to the max. However, finding words to explain ‘point load’, ‘flange’, ‘R pin’ was a doddle compared to interpreting for a (by then) very irate Casper. The generator itself pumps the power into the boat brilliantly, providing an excellent addition to the wind and solar generators, so my hair straighteners run fine and we have a constant supply of ice cubes.

Montañas de Fuego, Lanzarote

We grew very fond of ‘Arry, as we nicknamed the Lanzarote’s capital, with its white cityscape, doors and windows edged with fresh blue and green, its ‘charco’ lake and fortresses. Thanks to Manrique’s tireless dedication to conservation, Lanzarote, unlike it’s island neighbours retains its traditional character and beauty. Fuerteventura was a whole different kettle of fish. To be fair we only stopped in one port, Corralejo, which was a good base from which to explore the outlying Isla de Lobos, but an architectural carcrash. Lobos means ‘wolves’ but the meaning intended in the island’s name is ‘sea wolves’ or seals. These inhabited the island shores until, in the 15th century, a group of French mariners were shipwrecked there and ate every one of them to stave off starvation. We only day anchored at Isla de Lobos because the swell was very pronounced.

Big surf at Isla de Lobos

The sky was moody and dark when we left for Tenerife and once night came she was splintered with lightening and shaking with thunder. The heavens flickered with light as we sailed on, surrounded by storms but thankfully never actually in one. The odd squall hit us with the thud, the lines groaning as they were yanked harder round the winches. The anemometer jumped 10-15 clicks and the clouds delivered sheets of hard but warm rain.

The 125-mile passage was very fast and, not wanting to enter Santa Cruz in darkness, we stood off the North Eastern coast of Tenerife until daybreak. The baby pink dawn revealed the island’s velvetine peaks. The colour of sage and rust, and arranged in tidy piles, they looked like some mystical hand had plucked them skywards.

Rainbow arriving in Tenerife

The refreshingly green beauty of Tenerife’s Northern tip was an unfortunate place to start circumnavigating the island since it would seem to be, by far, the best of the coast. As we bore away and cruised downwind, the bone dry shores became increasingly littered with ugly developments catering for fish and chip tourism.

Pico de Teide, Tenerife, seen from La Gomera

We had an unhappy few days trying to find a decent place to stop. An extra dimension was added to the habitual list of requirements in the form of a visit from Val, my mother. We needed to be in a ‘nice place’, sheltered from the prevailing winds and swell, a bus trip away from the airport, a ‘sensible’ dinghy ride away from shore or alongside. Somehow it took us ages and many arguments to find either and we eventually settled for Los Cristianos (where the charm of the old town has not yet been entirely obliterated by the bucket and spade brigade).
The weather really doesn’t care whether you have plans. Given that I had once witnessed Val getting seasick in a dinghy on a flat calm sea with no wind, I was rather anxious to make the intended passage to Tenerife’s neighbouring island La Gomera on a sunny day, with a gentle breeze from behind and a small following sea. Instead we thumped our way into a heavy sea with two reefs in the main, a miserable force 6 periodically heading us, forcing us to alter course so much that darkness fell way before our arrival. It was, apart from Biscay, the worst sailing we have had thus far. Poor Val had no option but to retire to the ‘divan’ huddled in blankets, an emergency bucket close. Amazingly she still wants to sail with us.

The 3 of us having made it to La Gomera

La Gomera is Onbelievable. The most beautiful island I have seen so far. Cathedrals of rock, lush deep valleys, palm trees, pine trees, banana plantations, beaches of fine sand, dark and chocolatey.

Val & Casper pulling faces, Alto de Garajonay, La Palma in the distance

It is unspoilt and I hope to God it stays that way…

Descending to Chuipude, La Gomera

I need to go back to sea to have a rest! Being in the marina here at San Sebastian is a social whirl. We hooked up with friends made at previous anchorages, eating, drinking and going to bed late. It’s amazing what we end up talking about over supper now – twiddle buttons and self-digging anchor tips. God help you friends when we come back at Christmas*!

With love from us all x Capn Casper, First M8 K8, Chief Bottle Washer Bal

Imogen, our mascot (twice for some reason)

* December 19th to January 6th

Some pics to set the mind alight

My favorite Manrique print:
Wind sculptures by manrique:



We went to Cesar Manrique's house - inspiring! He built it in the black 'lava fields' which colour the plains surrounding the 'calderas' (craters) which pockmark the arid moonscape of Lanzarote. The volcano blew and rolled lava down the hills and plains in the 1730's. This brilliant artist come architect took the natural bubbles forged by gases popping within the lava and tweeked them into a series of underground rooms, some partially open to the sky. A palm grows up from the centre of a circular living space, its leaves whispering as they touch the open air. A window stretches the artist's studio seemlessly into the jet black lava garden. It's truly magical.

Lava field from Manrique's studio

We walked up an old volcano and picnicked at the top. It was blimmin windy and I was glad not to be at sea.





On the stainless steel leg for the hydro generator front (are you still with me?) it's dissapointing, unfinished and frustrating and not entirely due to my blunderings in Spainsh but our fingers are crossed for the best. It simply HAS to work as Casper tells me this will be "the end of our power problems" and i can plug my hair straighteners in...

Hola y muchisimas gracias from Arrecife!

With love from us

Dear all - well, I was wonderin why no one was postin comments havin asked me how to do such a thing... then I see that the ether fairies had been hoarding your messages in a secret computer compartment which I have now discovered. THANKYOU SO MUCH for yr comments, I haven't felt so tearful since we ate Skip the baby tuna...

RIP SKIP

Things continue to go well. I feel slightly cagey since there have been a few groanful complaints about the descriptions of the what was it 'implicit barefootedness' and the persistent accounts of fair weather. No, I can't pretend it's a hard life but it did rain the day before yesterday.

In fact it is blowing a hooley and we are weather bound in Lanzarote's capital Arrecife until further notice. Arrecife is a workaday town, and we are at the workaday end of it in the grubby harbour of Naos, brilliantly protected from both wave and wind.

We arrived in a gusty 6, heaving in the genoa and yanking down the mainsail just past the cruise ship and the tugboats strung up against the commercial pontoon. We motored up the creek in between the channel markers, arriving at a pool that was heavily crowded with small fishing gaffs and barnacle ridden no hope yachts. Eyeing the perfect spot right at the end of the shop, we cautiously picked our way between boats, most tugging at mooring buoys, some at anchor. The wind way shouty in our ears after the fast five hour sail. Halyards chattered and masts clanged. Above the din we became aware of some whistling, then some shouting. We ignored it and continued, with just enough throttle to keep us moving forwards against the persistent wind. Then there was shouting and whistling combined. Looking to see where it came from I see two guys on shore waving their arms furiously. I make out two words: 'piedra' then 'roca'.

"S*** - rocks gobackgoback" I jabber at Casper who is on the engine. Follows a disorderly but ultimately succesful retrieval of the situation. We are blown onto several small fishing boats, so I am hanging off the pulpit fending them off. Casper is trying to keep steerage whilst not hitting anything or moving forwards to graze our keels on the 'roca'. We recover our cool and turn back, scanning for an anchoring spot. There isn't really any space in the scruffy port for us.

At this point we are flagged down by Angel the man in the stained Y-fronts with the drooling rotweiler. He is standing in his full semi clad glory on a rough looking cat rafted to a second.

After some negotiation we 'rent' a mooring of 'his' for a week. It is all a bit vague and a scetchy and I can't decide if this is down to my faltering Spanish or to his dodgy business sense. Anyhow, we are on someone's mooring and its a good thing thanks with this gale blowing through.

Que? My head hurts...

Whilst we wait for the storm to pass we are having a stainless stell leg made for a newly purchased water generator. My brain hurts from having to explain words like 'flange' and 'R pin' in Spanish. I'm slighty dreading the moment when we see the end product - I just hope it fits and that not too much is lost in translation...

Whale and surf but this time no skipper in it, innit?

Madeira - Salvagens - Canaries

Madeira is nothing more than the crushed silhouette of ash grey peaks above a huge rolling cloudscape. Much as we enjoyed the island, it is a relief to leave Funchal and its zooped up nightly covers of the most manic songs by the Gypsy Kings, played on a land yacht once owned by none other than the Beatles.

The sea is lively but not boisterous, the wind is steady and coming from the East – more than expected but not too much. Impulse strides on. I relax as Gloria, our beloved and melodic autopilot, manages our course, which is for now rather perfectly on the rhumb line to the Ilheu Salvagens, the cluster of deserted islands lying 150nm south of Madeira and the same distance north of Gran Canaria.

Then I see spray ahead of us. Strange I think because neither wind nor wave is big enough to produce it. Then emerges a large object - charcoal coloured but shiny like a puppy dog’s nose, a blunted square in shape. It dawns on me.

“Whale!” I shriek, and lunge at Gloria to swing us away from it. Casper scrambles out on deck. We pass alarmingly close still and by now can clearly make out the rectangular head and low rise hump that are characteristic of a Sperm whale. It appears to roll on its side, a fin stretched skyward, the head and hump submerge and it is gone. However scary it is to see a whale it is scarier still when it disappears – is it coming at us? Will it bump us from below? It didn’t and despite the brevity of this monster’s visit the buzz of its sighting, and so close, stayed with us from quite some time.

We read later that we Sperm whales are not often seen as they spend most of their time diving up to two hours at a time and to depths of over 3000 metres. It was hard to see exactly how big it was but at least as long as Impulse. Sperm whales, at least the males, reach 18 metres in length (their dainty partners only getting to 12 metres or so).

I muse at the sighting way into the night, a waking dream, the sky milky with stars and the moon buttery and bright.

We arrive at the largest of the Salvagens the following morning and join two other boats in a small but deep anchorage on its Southern end. The island rises up above us, dry and barren. The water is so clear I can watch the lazy fish from the boat. We relax, happy there is no music to be heard especially not by the Gypsy Kings.

Driftin on

By the next morning a small swell has developed in the wee bay. This is unfortunate as we have work to do up the mast. Landlubbers skip this: the sheave to the block of the double purchase main halyard is crumbling and needs replacing which requires the halyard to been unknotted at the top of the mast. Its my turn to go up and so do. I unknot the thing and send the end down to Casper to thread through a new stainless block. I enjoy the view for a while. It’s uncomfortable up there, legs threaded through the rigging, bum going numb in the boson’s chair, head fixated on the numerous potential but very unlikely ‘falling scenarios’. It’s also very hot and, as the pole begins to lurch from side to side more with the increasing swell, I begin to feel sick. Casper sends the end back up and I wish I could skip the next bit but feel I can’t because that would be censorship. I struggle for ages trying to poke the damn end of the halyard in between the top plate of the mast and the pin that traverses its vertical flanges - ages and ages, swearing and sweating and feeling sick. Eventually I give up. Lying in the pod waiting for the Stugeron to take effect, Casper mentions the split pin at the end of the main pin, which holds it in place and IS REMOVEABLE. Grrrraaaagh! I had been so fixated on the task in hand that I hadn’t swung my thoughts laterally to this possibility: releasing the pin, putting the knotted halyard end in place, followed by the securing pin. Sometimes I despair of myself.

View from up top

Anyway, it’s by now too hot to carry on with the job so we shelve it for the following day. The halyard end is secured at the top of the mast but the main sail, with the block change unfinished, is unusable.

Unfortunately the anchorage becomes untenable that evening with a 6 metre swell rolling in to produce tubes of surf over the reefs surrounding us on two sides. We motor round to the bay on the Eastern side of the bay, which is initially calm enough for a barbecue but becomes uncomfortable overnight.

Surf develops just outside the anchorage -
you can just make out the mast of the remaining yacht to the left of the wave

We leave in the morning and, because we have to be able to use the mainsail, Casper climbs the mast this time to finish the work that his dumb blond girlfriend didn’t do. Even with the engine on tickover, the swell keeps our speed up. I try to steer at an angle to the swell that minimises any lurching for Casper’s sake. Then somehow, whilst I’m on the foredeck, I lose a shoe. With Casper yelling and pointing from his lookout 14 metres up I bumble up and down the length of deck, boathook in hand til I retrieve the damn thing. The lurching gets momentarily worse for no apparent reason. Casper screeches “future generations are in jeopardy!’ as the softest part of him snags in the rigging. Anyhow, he succeeds and I release him from his torment.

Blood red sunset

Follows an amazing day. Not much wind to be had, so little in fact that we end up swimming off the boat (holding on to a line because even at 1knot she moves away pretty quick). We also catch a fish – and not a mackerel! A female dorado, so beautiful with her yellow and blue flecked coat, that I cry (just as I did with Skip the tuna we caught just out of Madeira). She tastes good though, dusted in flour and fried in butter. The sunset is red, the glassy sea bloody with the sky’s reflection.

Dotty Dorado

It takes ages to get to the Canaries, even after we see the bright lights of Lanzarote. When I wake up a few hours after sunrise La Graciosa is finally in view. The wind has picked up and we are reefed down coming in the straight between Lanzarote (to starboard) and La Graciosa’s southern coast (to port).

Sailing into the Canaries

What a spot! The anchorage is great because the water is not too deep and there is good holding in sand. From the boat, we see no signs of civilisation at all, just raw nature: the beach stretching out of sight, interrupted here and there by the age old remains of lava flow, black and pockmarked. Several hills rise up, one, the closest is streaked on one side with brilliant yellow (Canaries yellow?). Lanzarote appears as a volcanic cliff face, rising high above the sea to a flat and deserted top.

Montana amarilla, yellow mountain, Graciosa

In La Graciosa’s main village Caleta de Sebo, I expect John Wayne to turn the corner pistols blazing and sweat-drenched neckerchief hiding half his face. The streets are made of sand and the occasional wind hardened palm tree interrupts the whiteness of the single story façade of the houses. I love it. We love it. And are in no hurry to leave or should I say ‘saddle up an’ ride right outa this goddam town’.