Leaving Las Palmas

We are back at sea after our anchor vacation in Las Palmas. Amazing how a few extra days in the city fast became two and a half weeks.
- Yeah two and a half weeks.
- Two and a half weeks?! Two and a half weeks of what?
- That... is hard to say...
We were busy every single day yet precisely busy with what is still puzzling. If you are reading this from your upright and ergonomic office chair with a heaving inbox stealing your eye I apologise. And if it makes this any more palateable I do feel whole heartedly self conscious (and guilty) owning up to this. Continue to ignore the intray...
I'll explain - there were days tracking down elusive pots of antifouling (brown only, delivery date indeterminate). This mission began on foot - a two hour walk at least before we mastered the complex circuitry of guaguas (buses to you and me and it's 'wahwah' not gwagwa). This task highlighted the benefit of owning a foldup bicycle which set in motion a second mission. In searching for a bike we made new friends (incidently with a boat from Dartmouth) and so we stayed another night. Then there was the shopping delivery that turned up 48 hours late, delaying our departure on the favorite North Easterly. Inevitably a Southerly then kicked up glueing us to the boat for a further 24 hours (and rescuing someone else's from a sticky end in the shape of a dragging anchor a too-close-breakwater). By the time the wind returned from a sensible direction a band of friends arrived so it would have been rude to leave. Then there was the saga of the missing package of ardently anticipated engine spares (arrived but promptly sent back 'because the package was small', interesting logic). So you see how a few days quickly turns into several weeks and it's not through laziness.
It's not all enjoyment either. There are many days when I curse the boat and long for bricks, mortar, a warm shower, a kitchen in which I can stand up and more generally a home which does not run the risk of blowing away, blowing over or being holed by another vessel. This thought crossed my mind most recently when we were just going out and the wind became quite lively. We decided it best to pop a second anchor in lest the first one drageth. I swung into Melvin, Casper passed me Bruce, our second anchor, and I attempted to row out to place the anchor. This proved silly as I was immediately blown back on the boat and almost under the trampoline. I cranked the ever-temperamental outboard into life. It obliged momentarily, then died. I started it again, and again, and again just managing not to wrench my arm out of its socket in my fast swelling anger. Not a great idea doing this in my 'shore clothes' (I am wet through). The wheezer obliges and we make it out to the choice spot to throw Bruce overboard. But what's this? No longer moving forwards are we. Scanning the possible explanations for this setback, the favorite is that Bruce's anchor rode is caught around the propellor of the dinghy outboard - CORRECT! I tip the outboad up to lift its leg out of the water and free the prop, forgetting to close the fuel cap, and thereby releasing half a tank of petrol down my favorite shorts. Great stuff.
On Casper's birthday we set sail at last. He was treated to a chirpy Northerlywesterly. We sailed off the anchor, executing a gracefully lap of honour to say goodbye to new friend Marinus on the hearty Mare Liberum before leaving the harbour on an ample goosewing. We ran downwind the length of Gran Canaria, making trifle as Impulse surfed the gushing waves, hitting 13 knots every so often. The coast here is attractive but greyed by tourism. The real stunner is the complex theatre of shapes and shadow which forms the volcanic interior, layer upon layer of alien landforms heaved up from the earth's core centuries ago and now, in the beginnings of Spring, veiled in the dewy green of a million fresh shoots.
I wrote earlier that in cruising South we do not witness the change in seasons and that I find it disorientating, uncomfortable. This itch has been scratched as we've been in the Canaries for sooo looog now. We've seen the steady trade winds of the autumn weaken, overtaken by Southwesterly gales. Right now, anchored in the sleepy (comatosed?) village of Santiago in the South of La Gomera, we are hostage to one of these. The wind threatens to blow West for another 4 days - again the package awaits us in El Hierro, Southwest of here! Before the barometre fell through the floor and the rain squalls started we took a bus (no, the bus) into the hills. From the clutch of whitewashed houses that is the village of Imada we walked down the valley through a meticulously terraced landscape, once (probably in my lifetime) farmed but now mostly left fallow. How quickly a place comes to rely on imports and, within a generation or two, the skills necessary for self sufficiency are lost. Still a few plots are worked, by hand as access is difficult, and as far as I could see by people at least twice my age. An abandoned almond orchard, in full bridal white bloom, kept us occupied, filling our shirt bibs with its bounty. Further downhill we stood lightheaded on the edge of a huge drop, a waterfall stretched below us, feeding a valley of luminescent green. The cobbled footpath, testament to some earlier activity than walking simply for pleasure, kept the river to our left and the sea ahead of us. We ducked under palms, sidestepped cacti, brushed against fragrant wild lavender, accompanied only by the occasional fat furry bee or speckled butterfly.
When will the wind turn? That's the current nagging question. The anchorage here is ok but not comfortable. I am anxious that if the wind turns Southerly in any way (though it is not forecast to) the swell will become nasty. If it does we will have to sail downwind, backtracking East to the island's capital San Sebastian. It's simple and not lifethreatening so why am I worried? I think the answer is that I don't know what will happen. If it happens at all I don't know when and I don't know how. We cannot plan ahead. We are just waiting. It is this loss of control that stresses me. It is the constant quicksand of parameters that underrides every mini decision, each mini decision shaping a future outcome and therefore another set of slipsiding parameters to be decided upon. It is like this in landlife too except the outcomes are more immediate out here and these decisions have to be made more often. Plus you cannot shut the door and ignore the weather like you can in a house. Every 'clunk' has us up to check the lines, the anchor, that nothing has broken or fallen into the drink. This morning I jumped over the side fully clothed to retrieve some rugs I'd left to air 'in a safe place'. I forgot to let go of the dustpan I was using at the time. All Casper could do was laugh at the sight of me trying to swim upwind hampered by clothing, two rugs and a bright pink dustpan.