Madeira - Salvagens - CanariesMadeira 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’.
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.
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 topAnyway, 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 sunsetFollows 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 DoradoIt 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 CanariesWhat 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, GraciosaIn 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’.
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