BITÁCORA
CIRCUMNAVEGACIÓN DE EUROPA OCCIDENTAL
por el velero

NEW CHANCE

21 DE ABRIL AL 16 DE DICIEMBRE DE 1997
CRUZANDO
2 OCEANOS, 4 ESTRECHOS, 8 MARES Y 73 ESCLUSAS
HASTA LLEGAR A 450 M SOBRE EL NIVEL DEL MAR

Fue otro tronco de "viaje de descubrimiento", igual que nuestra vuelta a America del Sur en 1994-1995. Con estas últimas 11,141 millas naúticas, New Chance ha navegado un total de 36,209 millas naúticas desde 1992. En terminos de nuestro globo, hemos atravesado 447 grados de longitud lo que equivale a 1 circumnavegación del mundo más otro 25% y 246 grados de latitud, igual a la distancia de polo to polo mas un 33%. Y le quedan ganas de seguir corretiando!!

Vientos frescos y favorables convirtieron el viaje de San Juan a Horta en las Azores con los amigos Chuck y Mike en un paseo. Altino nos preparó cinco días de partes metereológicos indicando un fuerte sistema de baja presión cerca de Nueva Escocia enfiladandose hacia el este. Zarpó New Chance a toda velocidad sin Mike, con esperas de adelantarse a esta tormenta antes de que llegue. Perdimos el encuentro. Al tercer día, los vientos aumentaron a 35 nudos del noreste, justo el rumbo al Canal de la Mancha. Y en vez de seguir camino para enterrarse en la Peninsula, el sistema metío un frenaso para quedar totalmente paralizado a 200 millas en frente de la costa de Portugal produciendo vientos constantes de 30 to 45 nudos, un mar monumental, y 5 dias de castigo. En el momento cuando empezaban a mejorar las cosas, nos parte por arriba una segunda tormenta. En el medio de la tempestad, una paloma le da tres vueltas al velero, y viendo al viejo marino Chuck, aterriza directamente en sus brazos. Con un enamoramiento a primera vista, la bautizamos Lucy, sin saber si era hembra o no. Ella de inmediato bautizó el barco entero con sus regalitos verdosos.

El ventarrón insiste. Olas de 7 metros lavaban a New Chance de popa a proa. Cuandoquiera orzabamos, siempre teniamos el viento de proa. Pasaban los días, todos iguales. Las olas devastadoras y el viento criminal nos alejaba más y más de nuestra meta. New Chance, con unos pañitos insignificantes de vela, peleaba como la brava que es. Nos pasamos horas estudiando las cartas del Atlantico en busca de una recalada, algún sitio que nos protega de esta miserable vida. Día tras día quedamos convensidos que el puerto de Cork en Irlanda sería la mejor de las alternativas. Eso es, con suerte. Con eso el barometro se desploma de nuevo y dentro de poco una nueva tormenta nos inunda los ánimos. Vientos fuertes de suroeste generan olas asesinas. Al piloto le falto pantalones para gobernar. Aprovechando el ventarron favorable, aumentamos vela y como si estuvieramos en una tabla de surf, entramos en las aguas relativamente calmas del Canal de la Mancha. Lucy, con la panza llena de espageti, ni se estusiasmo estar de nuevo en su pais.

Con Bertha, nuestro fiel motor, fuera de comision por causa de las multiples duchas recibidas, y para reparar otras cuantas averias, velas entre otras, le era urgente a New Chance hacer puerto antes de tratar de confrontarse con el tráfico escandaloso del estrecho de Dover. Ninguna de las posibles recaladas me atraian ya que requerían algún tipo de propulsión para batir las fuertes corrientes. A última luz se acerca un barco pesquero. Chuck lo llama por radio y nos responden de inmediato, -Anda hacia Portland Head y entra en el puerto de Weymouth. Buscate a Tony. El te arreglará, pero cuidado, ni piensen entrar de noche.- A primera luz, con una leve brisa terrestre, entramos como unos fantasmas a la preciosa bahia de Weymouth. Fue como llegar al cielo. Gente encantadora, hasta la policia. Tony el mecánico nos resolvió todos nuestros problemas. Nos rodeaba un típico pueblo Ingles. Era la semana de "New Orleans" y en todos los bares los conjuntos tocaban puro jazz. Mucha de la flotilla para la invasión de Europa en 1994 quedó acuartelada en Weymouth, engalletados igual que los veleros de hoy. Al segundo día, nos encontramos pegados contra la calle con 7 veleros amarrados por fuera.

Lucy paseaba sobre la cubierta como una reina. Yo le recordaba que estaba en su casa (tenía dos anillos, uno con GB 95 y el otros con H00600) y aunque brincó a tierra un par de veces, decidió quedarse con New Chance ya que habiamos comprado comida de paloma. Zarpamos, y en poco tiempo, sin darnos cuenta, nos encontramos dentro un campo de tiro, pero tiro de cañones. Un patrullero llegó a toda velocidad para salvarnos de ser unos de los blancos y a poco rato llegó un barco funestre gris, parecidos a los de Chile en el Canal de Drake, que de lejos envian el mesage de no jodan conmigo. Dentro de poco rato tuvimos a bordo a seis ejemplares armados de la Aduana de Gran Bretaña quien, sin llegar a ninguna determinación conclusiva sobre que es lo que hacía un barco de Miami con dos barbudos y una paloma paseando por estos lares, nos dejaron continuar.

Había mas tráfico en el estrecho de Dover que en la Calle de los Cuchilleros un viernes a las 10. Cargueros gigantescos, con menos de un kilómetro entre uno y otro, caminaban este a oeste, cada uno en su carril. Los Ferry, hidrofoils, hovercraft, a otra dozena de barcos se movian norte sur, de Dover a Calais. Otras varias dozenas de barcos, como el nuestro, esquiaba a los otros. Fueron tres horas complicadas. Una vez que dejamos atras el tráfico comercial nos acercamos a la costa Holandesa. Con el sol puesto, el viento empezando a zumbar, las olas rompiendo sobre New Chance, cerramos con la orilla. El puerto de Ijmuiden, a la entrada del Nordsee Canal, llegamos al cielo. Nuestra primera pata quedo atras. Habiamos llegado al continente tras navegar 4788 millas naúticas miles con 1139 horas de navegación. Tres whiskys y un buen sueño, y arrancamos hacia la:

SEGUNDA PATA
Una esclusa y unos veinte kilometros nos llevó a la marina de Six Haven, en frente de la estación de ferrocarril de Amsterdam. Chuck salió volao'. En pocas horas llegó Lirio desde San Juan y Barbara y Reiner Schwebel de Miami listos para enprender viaje hacia el Mar Negro, a 3,417 kilómetros. Pero, antes de nada, teniamos que bajar el mastíl, desarmarlo y amarrarlo firmemente sobre la cubierta, la primera vez para mi con este barco. El mas mínimo error y se acaba la fiesta.

Volvemos por un momento a San Juan. Tres días antes de nuestra salida, mientras trabajaba una tarde abordo New Chance noté, a pocos metros de la popa, un velero totalmente varnizado con bandera alemana. Al saludarlos, el capitán me pregunta adonde pueden atracar. Le indico que se arrimen al lado de nosotros. Entran de popa y veo en letras grandes que es el "Jenny Von Westphalen", su puerto, Duisburg. Agarre sus cabos con un saludo de -Este domingo salgo hacia Duisburg-. Sorpresa se convirtio en amistad. El se presentó como Max Von Schmelling, el velero nombrado para la esposa de Lenin. Cuando le presenté a Max la invitación para nuestra fiesta de despedida, el vuelve con -Bien, iré, pero bajo la condición que vengas a mi fiesta de bienvenida en Workum, Holanda el 21 de junio. Celebraremos nuestra vuelta al mundo en cuatro años. Más, te ayudaré bajar el mastil. Trato hecho.

El canal Nordzee nos llevó de Amsterdam al Ijsselmeer, conocido años atrás como el Zuider Zee antes de que gigantescas represas cerraron la boca protegiendo al país bajo de las violentas tormentas del Mar del Norte. Atracamos esta primera noche en Enkhausen, bello pueblo holandes, rodeados de 120 y pico veleros típicos antiguos, algunos de 40 metros de esclora. Al parecer, a Lucy le gusto el lugar. Voló para no volver.

Al día siguiente cruzamos a Workum adonde desmontamos el mástil, la desarmarmos y la montamos sobre unos taburetes abordo "New Chance" para nuestro viaje al Mar Negro. A las 4 de la tarde caimos en la fiesta de Max. where we arrived the next day, we pulled the mast, fixed it on deck, and headed for Max's arrival party where a multitude of his friends brought more German Delis, beer, wine and schnapps than I had ever seen before. Somehow, we managed to motor out the following day.. straight into a 25 knot westerly which, because of the shallow water, quickly kicked up short 6 foot seas. The mast, hung low and extending 10 feet over the bow, dug into the seas. The tie downs loosened. Barbara steered while I winched the mast tightly against the remaining supports. Convinced that the mast was headed for the briny, we slowed to a crawl and worked between waves. Eight tough hours passed as we covered the 20 miles to the entrance to the Ijssel River.

Thanks to the generosity of a local lumber yard in Markum, Reiner built new solid supports for the mast. Our plan now was to motor 600 kilometers up the Rhine, branch off on the Main River for another 600 kilometers which would take us to the 200 Km Main-Donau Canal. On it we would rise to pass over the continental divide at 1200 feet above sea level, and then drop back down to the Danube for the 2450 kilometer run to the Black Sea. With the mast now firmly fixed to the deck, our progress depended 100% + on Bertha's 40 hp.

Winston Churchill's "Triumph and Tragedy" led us up the historic Rhine, a natural barrier with many lingering scars of the war 50 years past. We overnighted at Xanten where the British XII crossed. The Ninth US Army fought at Duisburg, Dusseldorf and Cologne. The First crossed at Bonn, Remagen and Koblenz. The Third Army hit Mainz and crossed there. Air raids and the land battles totally destroyed most cities on the Rhine but most all have been rebuilt, as Max instructed us in Duisburg, with the same bricks and to the same design as the original. Truly, I needed to see the "before" pictures to appreciate the level of total destruction Germany suffered and to fully admire the rebuilding process and the resilience of the German people.

With the Rhine running 3 to 4 knots against us, we quickly learned how to beat the river. Water flows fastest on the outside of the bends, which because of the fast flow, is by nature deeper than the inside. To beat the current, we motored just inside of the buoys, one eye on the depth indicator the other on fast moving barges. When the Rhine zigged we had to cross to the opposite bank without getting run down by barges or cruise ships, those going up-river struggling against the current while those headed north zipping by at 30km per hour. Two thousand ton barges with every conceivable commodity, from coal to new cars, passed as if on parade.

One of the ladies kept tract of elapsed time between kilometer markers and another watched the depth. A conversion chart gave us our speed. For instance, 10 minutes per kilometer yields 6 km/hour, 20 minutes is 3 km/hr. We averaged 13 to 16 minutes per kilometer though often, by hugging the shore, we got it down to 9 minutes. But then, the ever present bottom awaited. By the time we passed Cologne we had hit a half dozen times. Guided by our pilot book of German rivers and canals the ladies helped select overnight stops. The ship's log follows our journey:

Monday June 23
1000 DEPART KAMPEN AFTER REBUILD OF MAST SUPPORTS. HEAD SOUTH ON IJSSEL RIVER. RAINY AND COOL
1600 PASS DeVENTER
1800 ARRIVE IN ZUTPHEN. FOUND SMALL MARINA. PULLED IN AND TURNED AROUND. TIED UP WITH HELP OF DOCKMASTER. DINED AT SMALL RESTAURANT. MET FRITZ AND WIFE WHO GAVE US DANUBE BOOK
Tuesday June 24
0630 OFF
0900 PASSED DOESBERG. COLD. 62F.
1300 PIT STOP AT FUEL BARGE NEAR PANNEIDEN. FILLED UP WITH 72L FUEL. LADIES SHOPPED AT STORE ON BARGE.
1800 KM 838 STOPPED AT WASSERSPORTVEREIN XANTEN, A SMALL YACHTHAVEN INSIDE ABANDONED GRAVEL PIT. TOUGH DAY. CURRENT RUNNING 3 KNOTS. LOTS OF TRAFFIC. LOCKED OURSELVES IN TO SLEEP.

And so our days passed. In Duisburg we filled up at a fuel barge and were allowed to overnight. Max picked us up, gave us a tour of the town and took us home where his wonderful family treated us to a host of German delicacies and Lirio to a bubble bath. Past Dusseldorf and Hitdorf New Chance, now a 60 foot vessel with the mast overhangs, barely squeezed into the marina just south of Cologne for a couple days of R & R. At St. Goar, one of our most picturesque stops, we entered the picture-book Rhine. On both banks high craggy hills tower over the river. Castles appeared around every bend, perched on hill tops high above the river. The river picked up speed to at least 10 Km/hour. We pushed Bertha to her limit. Nearing Rudesheim, fighting a hellish current, we followed a deep water channel inside of the buoys when suddenly we hit rocks. Friendly Vasserpolizei pulled us off and soon we were touring the most infamous Beer Halls along the Rhine.

At Mainz, a hard left and one lock took us into the Main and calm waters. Reiner took over the Lock Meister-New Chance interface, a critical task whenever we entered each of the next 68 locks. The skip sprung for a "real" bed on July 4, our 5th wedding anniversary, in Frankfurt. In Schweinfurt, tied up along the town park, we shooed the ladies off the boat while Reiner and I tended to a leaky fuel tank. After Nurenburg we entered the Main-Donau Kanal, a waterway envisioned by Charlemagne that would connect the Danube with the Main and Rhine Rivers. He began construction in 793 and the original works still stand near Weissenburg for all to see. After a short delay, the Canal was completed but four years ago, in 1993. Authorities confirmed we were one of the first pleasure boats to cross from the North to the Black Sea.

The trick to locking without damaging the mast came quickly. Normally we were ordered to follow a large self-propelled barge into the lock. We quickly learned to head for bollards on the side opposite from the one taken by the barge for, in that way, when the barge started up, the prop wash wouldn't wash us away. With 10 feet of mast hanging off both ends of the boat, line tension had to be kept tight. As the lock filled, we had to change bow and stern lines to ever higher bollards. Reiner and Barbara worked the bow lines while I handled the stern. If we missed one, the in-rushing water would swing the boat violently and push the mast into the wall. Once the lock filled, we had to motor out at full speed or we'd get yelled at by the lockmeister, often budding Hitlers. In our first four days on the Main our log ran 6, 6, 7, 8 locks per day, many locks a 90 foot rise.

Tourists packed the rolling countryside. As rain and more rain pelted us, we sorrowed for all of these poor tourists who, sandwiched together in large German cities, were now in knee deep mud, packed into trailer parks in conditions even more crowded than at home. Chilly winds kept all of us bundled. River banks overflowed. While tied up in Lynz, Austria, police closed the waterway to all traffic for three days as high fast water made navigation dangerous. We kept moving though, by train to Prague, still worn out from their communist experience, and then on to Salzburg; a tourist Trappe. Lynz became by far our favorite town; picturesque, friendly, laid-back, just the right size, with good public transport and never ending activity. Tied up 20 kilometers north of Vienna, we were adopted by the Schmidts who took us on a tour of sights seldom touched by the tourist; the Cafe Central, a favorite with Karl Marx and Hitler, Cafe Landtman, where local Parliamentarians and VIP's hang out, and Cafe Dremel, dug deep underground hundreds of years ago.

The attitude of people relative to their neighbors down river amused me. People we met in Germany and Austria told us in no uncertain terms to be extremely careful, for civilization, as we know it, ends at the Austrian border. We did skip Slovakia. Bratislava is a prime example of the worst Russian post war architecture and industrial construction. Unpainted time-worn high rises are bathed continuously by dense clouds of industrial fumes.

We entered Hungary at Estergon, eyes open, senses wary, only to find charming people, a fabulous historic town where most of the Kings of Hungary were crowned and are buried. Don't miss the crypt in the cathedral. Budapest was as lively as Miami with well presented and cared for historical museums and monuments that range back to Roman times though the Mongols in 1241, the Turks in the 16th century, and the Russians in February 1945 worked diligently to level both Pest and Buda.

Reiner and Barbara flew off, and with Neill and Gretchen Martin aboard, Lirio and I headed down river from Budapest, but not before being warned to be very careful in Slovakia and Yugoslavia. They are barbarians. It's dangerous. Be armed and ready to repel boarders. Get rid of the big US flag. Just in case, we loaded the Mossberg with 8 rounds of #2 shot before we entered the Danube and headed down river, the star spangled banner yet flying. A German couple aboard Doria, a 36 foot steel sailboat, had joined us for mutual protection/aide for the trip down river. Together, relying upon our river guides, we'd select our stops for the night, since night-navigation would be even more hazardous than during daylight hours.

Our carefree days of no paperwork ended abruptly. At Batina, Yugoslavia, the "authority" who handled our paperwork was straight out of the Bolchevik Keystone Cops. Each motion, such as to rubber stamp a document, took 5 minutes... he'd study document.. open drawer.. search for stamp.. find stamp.. close drawer.. put stamp on desk.. pick up stamp.. hit stamp hard on ink pad.. study document some more.. hesitate.. think some more.. take stamp in hand.. lift stamp.. study document again.. slam stamp on document.. study results.. open drawer.. replace stamp.. close drawer.. study results.. and each document had to be stamped a half dozen times with a variety of seals. Since most of the afternoon had passed before we received clearance to proceed, we ran out of light which forced us to enter a large barge staging area down river and tie up to a large coal barge for the night. Lucky for us, it didn't go anywhere.

The fast flowing Danube delivered us in a few hours into Yugoslavia where a half dozen members of the Klub Danubius Novi Sad rowing club ran to take our lines and make us fast to a small boat pontoon. These wonderful friendly people quickly took over. We had to see the town, join them in refreshments, stay longer. The town, as we found in most of Yugoslavia, sported little traffic, a slow pace, and much lower prices than we'd found up-river.

The following day, August 15, 1997, was the saddest and most emotional of our entire voyage. We passed thirty or more kilometers which six months earlier had been closed to travel because of the Balkan war. All private homes were destroyed. Not one building in Vukovar remained untouched by the war. Large gaping holes blanketed all the high rise buildings. Huge water towers were broken in half. Further down river, entire neighborhoods, with dozens of upper-class homes, lay in ruins. We passed in total silence. We saw no sign of life but witnessed a vivid reminder of the results of 400 years of Ottoman rule, a period when the Muslim faith grew the roots that maintain the Balkans in turmoil today.

In Yugoslavia we were warned about their neighbors downstream. Be careful with the Romanians and Bulgarians, we were told, for they are really bad. Again, stop after stop yielded nothing but positive experiences.

Down river both banks of the Danube are barren. The eastern bank, marshes, and wet forests run for miles. The western bank sports high clay hills broken by rain created ravines. As we approached a large ravine where a small village lay suspended from its cliffs I noticed a large white modern stretch limo, as about out of place here as our two ocean-going sailboats. I headed closer, broke out the glasses, and found the wedding party. At that moment a huge explosion rattles the rigging. Smoke rises as I get the distinct feeling that we're being invited to the wedding. Why not?? We came up with a dozen reasons to continue on our way, with yet another anecdote for the log. Soon we approached Belgrade. The commercial harbor looked liked our best bet but as soon as we tied up there the police chased us out... ONLY commercial shipping we were led to understand. And we couldn't finish our beer. We must leave... NOW. We steamed up river to the junction of the Danube with the Saba and as we passed a large park on the waterfront dozens of people, upon seeing the USA flag, stood up, came running to the shore waving and throwing kisses. Now, what is that?? So much for bad press.

With all the bad-press handed us about the Romanians, we had stayed in Yugoslavia (Romania was on our left) all the way down. At Irongate we locked through on the Yugoslavian side and we decided to approach the Prohovo Locks on the same western side. Up river, in Germany and Austria, the locks were pristine, their signal lights worked impeccably, the control towers all in top shape. As we waited, tied to the bank at Prohovo, looking for any sign of life in the dilapidated structure before us, a man at the end of a quay began to wave. When we motored over he indicated, in sign language, that the locks on the Yugoslavian side were non-operational and that we should head for the Romanian side. All went smoothly as we negotiated the last major locks on the Danube, our Yugoslavian courtesy flag still flying high.

To clear into Bulgaria we tied up alongside the 60 foot German catamaran "Echo" who in turn was tied alongside the 5,000 horsepower tug Ukranian tug Hankardam. Doria latched on to us. After port formalities, which were not that painful, we were all invited aboard the Tug for wine, cheese and an assortment of other Ukranian goodies whose origins I failed to detect. A jolly time was had by all even though 95% of the people present couldn't communicate orally.
With so much written about the magnificence of the flora and fauna in the Danube Delta, I had a mind set to go until dozens of people along the Danube, whenever we complained of the local mosquitoes, to a person had said.. wait until you get to the Delta.. there, they are as big as bats. So we scratched the Delta tour. Besides, the Black Sea Canal would save us 300 miles and a bunch of days. Built by slave labor in the 50's and 60's, it holds the bones of more than 10,000 political prisoners. Motoring past the 50 kilometers of this hand-made canal I mourned for the tens of thousands of men who placed each of the millions of stones facing the embankment, and for those who dug in the freezing muck. At the Black Sea port of Constanta, with help from a friendly Romanian tugboat captain and a 100 ton gantry crane, New Chance once again became a sailing vessel. Gretch and Neill Martin signed off and Lirio and I sailed into the town of Constanta, ten miles away, to fine-tune the rigging and convert New Chance again into an ocean sailing vessel and prepare her for
LEG 3
Following advice received at the Bulgarian Danube port of Rouse, Lirio and I headed for the Bulgarian Black Sea port of Baltic, some 70 miles away. A spectacular 360 degree lightning storm greeted us as we approached Cape Noose Kaliakara which quickly lifted Lirio from veteran river traveler into oceanic crew. Balchic was truly a haven. Friendly warm people at the small marina immediately took care of all our needs. Milkana quickly took Lirio in tow while Milo signed on as crew out of Istanbul. Lirio stuck with me as far as Varna where she traded her boat gear for bus garb and a ticket for Istanbul. With a salute to the USS Spruance, anchored in Varna harbor, I sailed away alone with notable hesitation. During the 400 years of Ottoman rule the Turks had held hostage every country we had just passed through with incredible nasty deeds. We had on board history books outlining the Turkish occupation of the Balkans. These were the original bad guys.
Through utter darkness, little traffic, and a steady north wind New Chance sailed easily into the Bosforus early on the morning of September 5. Incredible architecture graced both sides as we (New Chance and I) approached the Golden Horn and the magnificence of ancient Constantinople, now bustling Istanbul. Firmly moored at Atakoy Marina, as modern as any in the world, I plunged into a human maelstrom that left me in shock after the many weeks cruising the slow-paced hinterlands of the world. Lirio and I almost earned our Turkish residency after two weeks touring the fabulous sights of this unique city. Dozens of friendly people contributed to an unforgettable experience. Lirio flew back to San Juan and when Milo arrived from Bulgaria we sailed across the Sea of Marmara and down the Dardanelles to the ancient town of Canakkale, a few miles from both Troy and Galipoli.
A deep blue sea followed us in stops at Linaria, on the island of Skiros, Karistos and Piraeus, next to Athens. and led us to Pylos, a city on the western side of the Pelopenesus where we picked up a new crew member, a 3 week old calico kitten, promptly christened Pylos. With litter box and kitty chow added to our stores, we threw up the spinnaker and sailed for Malta, the ancient and fabled land that is so difficult to describe except that it is 100% Maltese. Besides containing remnants of Europe's' earliest civilizations, there are traces of Phoenician, Carthaginian, Roman, Greek, and Turk incursions. St. Paul shipwrecked in Malta in A.D. 60. A determined siege by the Turks in 1565 gave way to the establishing of the order of the Knights of Malta who defended the island until Napoleon came along, At the war museum I was reminded of the more than two years of devastating daily bombardment by Germans and Italians in 1940-41. In 1942 King George awarded the entire peoples of Malta the George Cross for Bravery, its shield now part of the Maltese flag.
I prayed in the first Roman Catholic church I'd found since exiting Hungary. Barbara, Lirio and I had participated in a mass at the Cologne Cathedral where the liturgy is printed in eleven languages. A week later, in Miltenberg, at their overly ornate medieval church, packed with faithful, no one sat in our almost empty pew until a lone young lady joined us. Strange. We heard a bunch of what appeared to be deeply moving homilies as we traveled from Holland to Malta but could pick up nary a word. Yugoslavia and Bulgaria are Orthodox. In Istanbul, with 95% of the population Muslim, I heard there were several Roman Catholic churches but I never found anyone who could tell me how to find them.
New Chance hauled at the Manuel Island Boat Yard with hopes that a serious rudder leak would find a quick fix. The project a failure, we threw three coats of paint on the bottom, splashed the boat, and set off for Sicily, an overnight sail. Night caught us near Agrigento and on spotting a Marina, we headed in. While we saw the sights Pylos, like kittens are apt to do, ran all over the marina; friendly fellow mariners kept an eye on her naughty behavior. With imposing ruins rivaling those in Athens, Acragas, as Agrigento was known 2500 years ago, was founded by Greeks in 580 b.c. then later progressively destroyed by all the local bad guys. Several Doric temples dating to 65 b.c. still stand.
With winter approaching, we kept on the move. A strong westerly gale forced us south towards Tunisia. Ten miles off the coast, Bertha's transmission died, the wind followed suit, the bottom appeared at 20 feet, the current pushed us towards shore and the sun set. As ominous a combination as I've faced in a while. We quickly tacked north and at dawn four days later we found ourselves 10 miles south of the plush green slopes of Sardinia. A fresh easterly sprung up at that moment and since my book sez to never waste a favorable wind, we set all sails and headed for the Balearic Islands, 400 miles west.
Palma de Mayorca was as much a surprise as Malta. After three months in countries where my English and Spanish were useless I was eager to reach Malta, known to me as a longtime British enclave so that I could engage in street banter. Yet lo and behold, all spoke Maltese. In Mayorca, everyone insisted on speaking Mayorquin. Palma is as continental city as any, the Real Club Nautico a relaxing and truly regal entity, and the countryside, which we visited via fast comfortable trains, laid back and friendly. Pylos jumped ship and somehow managed to break her front leg... just as Milo and I had the engine removed ready to install a new transmission. By luck, a cheerful English couple who happened by took Pylos in tow, had her leg set, and returned her just as Bertha came to life.
After a short fuel stop in Almeria, Spain, we set course for Gibraltar. With darkness enveloping the familiar outline of the Rock, we pushed along with sail and engine.. until we reached a point 10 miles East of Gib when Bertha slowly died. With Dr. Butler unable to revive her, I returned on deck to clear the Cape and sail her into Sheppards Marina. The 20 knot easterly sea breeze, as it twisted around the Rock, appeared on the west side as either a total calm or as a 35 knot gust. To get to Sheppards we had to tack up a very narrow channel, wind on the nose, an airport runway to our left, a rock breakwater to the right. Twenty tacks later, the wind alternating between 5 and 35 knots, exhausted and outright scared, the bright city lights blinding us, forever looking over my shoulder for an incoming airplane, we broke out into a small basin at the end of the channel. As I'm trying to figure out what to do next a man on shore signals for us to tie up to a small floating pier near where he's standing. We take in the sails and jibe... just as a gust hits. With all sails loose, we head in much too fast. The man runs to the pier and grabs a line tossed by Milo and secures it and with a not so gentle crunch, New Chance stops. I say, "Hello. Where are we." and the man replies, "Welcome to Gibraltar, sir, this is Her Majesty's Customs and Immigration Service." Just the people we were looking for!
Again I was caught by surprise. 90% of the people we met during the following three days were born in Gibraltar, live in Gibraltar, and have both Spanish and English ancestry. The most common language spoken is Spanish. Genuine home-grown Brits are a rarity though close to 100% of the population supports the Crown Colony political status than a tie-in with Spain. We climbed the Rock by cable car, saw the sights from the top, fed the monkeys, and toured the magnificent caves.
Unable to get the engine repaired we sailed for the Canary Islands. A fresh southerly gale slowed our crossing to nine days, several spent tacking up the coast of Morocco, far enough off to keep clear of the bad guys. We fought off temptation to see the bright lights of Casablanca more closely but too much bad press about highhanded authorities and street crime kept me at sea. We pulled into Palma de Mayorca at 3 a.m. Tuesday November 10 to be received by Rafael, my nightly Weatherman and the crew of Saga, old friends from Miami. Milo decided to fly home and for the trip to San Juan I signed on Katrin and Ernst, a young German couple. Katrin removed Pylos' cast when the third week arrived and with Jimmy Cornell, Marina authorities, myriad's of ARC participants wishing us a friendliest of good-byes, and a tow out into deep water we were off, Bertha dormant, but all batteries fully charged thanks to Saga.
As on our first leg to Horta, the 3000 mile sail to the Americas was another "Hollywood Cruise". Battery power for the radio lasted all the way. Bilge water (and there was a lot coming in through the rudder gland) was pumped out by hand. Fishing was great. During two days of total calm, we read and swam. Pylos was the ships clown, whether racing around deck or wrestling a large mahi-mahi. As we approached St. Martin early one morning, Pylos sat on deck, awed, staring at this strange new sight, land. A 5 hour pit stop in St. Martin gave me a chance to attend Sunday Mass and re-stock with the bare essentials, rum, coke, and bread. 38 hours later New Chance passed under the Morro of San Juan having successfully completed another great voyage.
I'd need another twelve pages to thank all the people who made this trip possible; my family, crew, Rafael, Altino and cousin Alberto who gave us daily accurate weather data and provided the radio/Email link with home, and all the gracious helpful people, now friends, who we met at every stop. Lirio won the overall endurance prize with her 90 nights squirreled into the "honeymoon suite", for some reason dubbed by her the "torture chamber", with the skip. The rest of the crew, Chuck, Mike, Barbara, Reiner, Gretchen, Neill, Milo, Ernst and Katrin are who made the trip flow so smoothly. Thanks tons to everyone.
And planning is underway for the next voyage of discovery... the circumnavigation of Eastern USA, that is San Juan to Bermuda, Barley Neck, Nova Scotia, St. Lawrence Seaway, Chicago, St. Louis, Mobile, Baton Rouge, Galveston, Miami, San Juan. We sail in May of '99.

Bill Butler
San Juan, July 20, 1998