It was about 00:30 on Wednesday morning. There was no moon and the sky was a pitch-black shroud punctured by tiny pricks of light of varying lustre. The brightest and biggest had been Venus, but she had already set. The next most dazzling was Jupiter, following both her and the dimmer Saturn downwards on the ecliptic to the horizon on our starboard beam.
Off the port beam appeared Orion, doing a super-slow somersault as the earth spun beneath it. One could clearly make out his bow: there is very little light pollution half way across the Tyrrhenian Sea in the dead of night. The only time we have seen his bow more clearly was in the Atacama Desert, where it is dark and bone dry, so no moisture the obfuscate the starlight.
Occasionally, a glow would appear on the horizon. Was it a lighthouse, or town? No, we were 80 miles from the nearest land. Was it the moon about to rise? No, wrong time and wrong quarter. A quick look at AIS provided the answer; a distant cruise ship (Bonaria) lit up like a Christmas tree. It would disappear over the horizon in half an hour - as it sped its sleeping passengers at over 20 knots to their next morning port – and the darkness would return.
The only other relief from the black was the dull whiteness of the white horses approaching from the right before slopped against the hull, occasionally showering the helm in a spatter of salty droplets. And the white, frothy, dishwasher melee astern from the wake of the twin rudders.
But then a flash in my peripheral vision, as the rod cells in my eyes reacted. I looked left off the port beam and waited. And there was another spark. I am reading ‘Kingdom in the Sun’ (sequel to Norwich’s ‘Normans in the South’). Throughout his historic narrative, he relates how various players have seen miraculous worldly visions, prompting them to do great deeds, like establish a shrine or a new church. What were those apparitions? Dreams?
Maybe, but I now have my own theory. I waited and another flash flickered momentarily. A huge cauliflower-floret of a towering cumulonimbus was at one moment invisible and black. And a second later it was lit up briefly from inside like an enormous, organically-shaped light bulb. And then blackness again, as the light switch was flicked off. I watched and waited. There it went again for a second, this time inside the bubble-wrap cloud was the shape of a man’s upper body (head, shoulders, handless arms and torso) appeared in a neon flicker. A man, not a ship, in a bottle. Then black, holding my try breath to see if the figure would re-appear.
The light switch flicked again, but this time the figure was replaced by an amorphous shape within its bubbly transparent case. Or maybe my imagination was not vivid enough to make out a recognisable form?
I was recently asked if I could remember what I “‘watched” with my grandma; the inference being what TV programme. I replied, “the coal fire”. She had no TV, and we would spend long periods staring into the hot coals and embers, describing what shapes and pictures we could see. Our imagination was vivid, and perhaps we would have made out a face in that instant now when that mighty thunder-cloud lit up.
So, perhaps our medieval knights and clergy had experienced a similar moment to me, but also seen 'a sign' in those awe-inspiring lights?
For me, it was simply a sign that the weather forecast had been accurate: we were expecting electrical storms way off to the north-east towards mainland Italy, and also far ahead in Sicily, which would fade well before we arrived. It was a relief to know that we would sail between the storms and not find ourselves on our yacht under a ginormous bag of static electricity!
Before the light had fallen, Alix suggested we put in a reef. It was only a Force 4 (F4), but it’s better to have a safety margin when night-sailing. The swell was still a remnant from the previous days’ stronger, persistent southerlies and so we had a decent sized sea on the starboard quarter. Alix called me a little later to put in reef number 2, as the wind gusted to 21 knots (F5). She is a good, cautious sailor and we make a good team!
It’s much more comfortable to have a strong wind on a flat sea, than the alternative. But we were beggars, with little choice if we wanted to leave Arbatax. The forecast was for a depression to pass through within 48 hours and that would blow all the way past Sicily and beyond for 2 or 3 days. There was an open window, and we needed to climb through it.
Which meant that waiting for Missy Bear to be released from outpatients had been slightly tense. When we got her, we would have lots of things to check, and we also needed to put her back together again, because we had stowed everything to allow the works to commence.
Elena had agreed to get the yard to put the yacht back in the water on Monday at 10:00. We waited that morning at the hotel and received a text at 09:45 from her that the anti-fouling had not been done!
“Why not?
“Because I forgot to put it on the work list, but no problem, we can do it tomorrow.
“But we need to sail at 0600 tomorrow, to get to Sicily before the bad weather!
<Pause>
“OK, we can do it today!
“Great, but when will she be in the water?
“14:30. And we’ll do it for free!
“OK, deal. Thankyou!”
So, 14:30 came and went, and there was no sign of the travel hoist appearing. Then at about 3pm, I could see the top of a mast moving behind the trees off in the distance close to the yard. A yacht was on land and on the move. It had to be Missy Bear, surely? Sari – in the UK - texted Alix to say that they could see the boat on the move on the Vessel Finder website. And sure enough, she appeared from behind the trees in her blue, wheeled cradle, and half an hour later she was ready to be lowered into the water.
Ricciardo came on board and we had a look at the repairs. Very tidy job. And we already knew that the surveyors had been and checked the works for their report to the insurance company. So, we felt comfortable that all would be well on our next sail: a 175 NM voyage to the south-east. We presented Ricciardo with a toy for baby Alberto!
Then it was ‘All hands on deck!’, to prepare her for the trip. And to victual her; nothing fancy, just tea, coffee, cereal, milk, water, sandwiches and chocolate biscuits. The only minor issue we had was an air lock in the cold-water system; one of the workmen may have run the taps on an empty tank. It was easy to remedy.
After 11 hours of darkness on the open sea, it is always lovely and comforting to see the light of a new day gradually blossom and to feel its warmth, even if that is only psychological at first. Soon that golden ball of fire would appear, only to be hidden by some low cumulus. Its rays still fanned out from behind them, in a spiked halo. I felt sorry for Alix, as she was off watch and missed it. But it was better for her to sleep after a couple of difficult watches.
She also missed landfall, as the Aegidian islands and then the north-west cape of (the Mediterranean’s largest island) island came into view.
Mount Erice is a prominent landmark and by tracing its right flank to the south, one could approximate the location of our destination: Erice's ancient port of Drepani (Trapani).
We called the port authority to say we were entering the harbour, and by 12:30 we were safely parked up in our little family-run marina called Marina Artura Stabile.
We were both tired and could have done with a long nap, but the weather was great and there was much sight-seeing to be done: I have been looking forward to travelling to Erice for months! Many sailors have looked forward to getting here over the centuries, and for many different – some surprising – reasons. But, more of that later...