Mann Tracht…
- Richard Crooks
- May 12, 2024
- 5 min read
A low pressure was tracking eastwards along the Mediterranean, south of Crete. The curling, gradient air-flow of the depression was, of course, anticlockwise. And that meant that the wind would bend around, and down, over the Sporades from the north-east, hundreds of miles north of the eye. It would also drag some cloud and the odd rain shower over us.
Our Windy weather app was showing red colours, not our preferred greens. This meant that the wind gusts would be in the low thirty knots, which is Beaufort Force 7. We definitely needed to find a safe haven for a couple of nights.
In general, after a long sail in a stiff breeze and a moderate swell, one is quite relieved to reach the lee of an island. The water turns a lighter colour, the frothy foam of the sea-horses dissipates as the sea subsides, and the whine of the wind in the rigging gradually fades. Missy Bear will creep into a shallow bay and drop the anchor, dig it in and then ride it, confident that it and the chain will do their job and keep us safe.
Now, we wanted a bay sheltered from the expected wind direction. As it happened, we were already moored up stern-to in a little fishing village called Nea Klima, which lies on the lee (west side) of the island on Skopelos. There were a few other live-aboard boats next to us; all either French or German, and we discovered that they also fancied staying here while the exciting weather passed over. It seemed sensible to stay here and not risk sailing back to Skiathos Town. (Our charming guest agreed to being put on a ferry there instead, so she could catch her flight home.)
We should expect to be blown off the quay, which meant that our anchor and chain would not have to do too much work. The wind picked up during the afternoon and we all rigged mid-ships spring lines to help take any the sideways load. The tempest gathered speed during the evening, as the light faded.
But it seemed that our expectations were wide of the mark: the tall wooded mountains, covered in pines, must have been diverting and funnelling the wind, as it now blasted over our little floating terrace from the south-east! And then the south-west! Instead of the lines taking the load, the wind caught our high topsides laterally. Our lines, designed to be under load, went slack, Missy Bear's stern surged backwards towards the concrete quay, and the anchor chain strained bar-tight!
It was going to be a long night. Like us, our European neighbours, sat curled in their cockpits in the gloom, keeping a watching vigil over the scene. Missy Bear heeled over in the banshee screams, but she held fast.
Then the first boat dragged its anchor, and rather than having an argument with an immovable object behind them, they decided to let-go their lines, lifted their chain, drove off and parked alongside the quay further inside the harbour. Then another boat’s anchor let go. so they too parked alongside instead. Their fenders would now get a good pummelling, as they were squeezed and released repeatedly as the black hours passed.
The French boat next to us, from Leucate, with its single-handed captain [DN - he has two hands, to be clear], then lost its hold. After a particularly violent gust across his port bow, his bow paid away and his anchor chain went limp; pointing down vertically instead of at a desirable 45-degree angle to the water. Even though the skipper was down below, like all good sailors he sensed the situation and appeared on deck almost immediately.
“Monsieur, I’m afraid your anchor has dragged. Je peux vouz aider?” He rushed around, not taking up my offer. His stern platform crunched and then scraped into the concrete behind his little boat. “Perhaps, you can simply lie alongside, here?” “Is there enough room?”, he responded. I thought so, but didn’t offer an opinion in case I was wrong.
A few second later, he let go both his stern-to mooring lines, and then rushed forward to let his anchor chain run free. His bows paid off to starboard rapidly in the near-gale, and as his starboard fenders bounced into the quay, he leapt off and secured a bow line. I managed, uninvited, to reach and secure a stern line. Phew. There has been just enough room for him to lie between Missy Bear and his other neighbour who were both still holding fast.
Our other neighbours, Toby and Michaela from Bavaria, were the next to lose their grip with the shallow sea bed. “This wind is crazy”, he said. Their stern fenders cushioned the impact. Should they go out, re-drop the hook and re-park? Or maybe, they should just go and anchor just outside the harbour, away from the hard, concrete objects?
I offered to help them re-park, but observed that they would ideally need a 5-or-10-minute lull for the tight manoeuvre. That didn't seem a likely scenario. They decided to cast off and anchor in the bay, not far from a much larger and leavier Spanish yacht. The wind blew them across our bows, as they tried to raise their chain and anchor. I motioned at them to keep the boat upwind to avoid fishing for our own anchor chain. For a nasty moment they caught our chain.
“Merde” I thought, “this could be challenging!” I rushed on board and started the engine, and engaged forward gear, to keep us off the quay. Fortunately, Michaela stopped winding in their anchor until Toby had motored back upwind and over the top of it. They continued the lift and were soon free. I rushed up to the bow and pulled in a metre or so of our own chain. The anchor and chain bit again solidly. We were safe, and we wouldn’t have a very challenging re-berth!
Our German neighbours survived the night safely outside the haven, but next day the sea around them was white with surf, albeit on small wavelets. There were even mini whirlwinds, whipping up the foam. The wind gradually veered around to the north-west, which was now perfect for us, and our anchor windlass was given a well-earned rest. The wind also eased enough that we actually got some sleep on the second night.
By morning, the situation was more benign, although it was still overcast and gloomy. Toby and Michaela, came back in and parked stern-to, not far from us. Speaking to them later, they had registered gusts of over 40 knots (and the Spanish yacht had registered a peak of over 50 knots). Missy Bear was only a few hundred metres away, but the sea-wall was proving to be a good defence.
Their Bimini had been ripped from its deck fastenings, and one zip had been ripped off. Michaela said she would try and mend it herself.
And breathe…
You soon realise, that you have remained calm throughout, but have been shallow-breathing with the tension and expectation of the next ramrod of air arriving.
As Alix and I had hired a car for the three days we were on Skopelos island, we invited our German chums to come with us on a little adventure the next afternoon to unwind and relax. This lovely period coincided with the sun re-appearing. The narrow, switchback roads wended their way through beautiful pine forests. The abundant broom was in its full yellow glory.
The drive culminated in a visit to the tiny church of St John perched on a craggy outcrop on the north-east side of the island. It is the one you will all recognise from ‘Mamma Mia’.
Our choice of harbour hadn’t been as good as we had first hoped. But as they say, “Mann Tracht Un Gott Lacht”.
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