The long way home; Fano to Isole Tremiti

The long way home; Monfalcone to Fano

Lifting in

I flew out to Venice on the 19th of August to complete the purchase of Sherenis and to carry out renovation of her hulls and service her engines prior to sailing home. Monfalcone to Dublin is about 900 nautical miles as the crow flies, if a crow was so inclined. 

Flying from Dublin to Venice in an airplane took around three hours. 

Sailing the course from Monfalcone to Dublin; down around the Boot, up through the Straits of Messina, skirting the southern Tyrrhenian Sea, sailing around Iberia and then across Biscay is a trip of just under 3,000 nautical miles. I estimated that it would take around a month. 

"The best-laid schemes o'mice an' men, gang aft agley." Robert Frost

We set out from Monfalcone at 16:15 on Friday the 28^thof August in completely still conditions, with warnings of the approaching Sirocco far from our thoughts. Following an appropriately slow departure from our hammerhead berth, I carefully negotiated the narrow, shallow channel running from the marina complex out into the Gulf of Trieste. The channel was demarcated by wooden stakes with their tops painted red and green and fringed with high reeds from which protruded the occasional fishing rod, attached to still and stoic figures. 

The banks of the channel soon rose into the cliffs which surround the Gulf of Trieste and we entered into the shallow inner bay which teemed with craft of all sizes, their passengers luxuriating in the gentle afternoon sunshine. Once into deeper water we made south west, headed for the Gulf of Venice. As the afternoon light faded into evening the steaming lights of distant tankers and cargo ships glimmered on the horizon. We picked our way along the fringes of the busy shipping lane running into Trieste, tracking the movements of the ships as they came and went.

Grand Canal, Trieste

 

As the last of the setting sun’s light dimmed in the western sky, a waxing moon rose to the south, bold bright and tracing a luminous pathway beckoning us down the Adriatic. The breeze freshened from the South and behind and above us clouds began to stack up as the warm Sirocco collided with and accelerated up into the foothills of the alps. As we turned onto a more southerly course in the middle of the Gulf of Venice, flashes of lightning began toilluminate the front of the cloud bank, which to seemed to follow directly above us for several hours. The southern sky was clear and brightly lit by the moon, but to the north it was dark and charged. Over the course of thenext twelve hours we watched over the stern as a spectacular electrical storm unloaded itself on the north shores of the Adriatic. Enfilades of chain lightning exploded in fierce yellow bursts from west to east every few minutes and the occasional fork crackled over the mountains. Only very occasionally would the sound of the distant thunder reach us, reassuring us that we were going in the right direction.

Moonpath

 

We reminded under power, with the wind directly on our nose and our course too close to shipping lanes to justify setting sail for long tacks. The breeze freshened steadily up to gusts of twenty five to thirty knots, apparent. The sea state grew unpleasant, with short period chop and a developing quartering swell buffeting the hulls with jarring and unpredictable thumps from all sides. As we tried to take our medicine with something approaching good cheer I began to grow increasingly concerned with the motion of the tender as it swung from its davits. The dinghy was excessively powered with a heavy twenty five horsepower engine, which was not readily removable, being set up for wheel steering. Its heavy back end swung to and fro and thumped up and down, visiting shock load after shock load onto the davits. Try as I might, with various permutations of springs and bow and stern lines led to secure fixing points, I could not make the dinghy sit easy. I predicted, incorrectly, to Charles that the davits would not last the night.

As the night wore on we made for Ancona from the southwestern point of the Gulf of Venice. The wind veered slightly off the nose and at around five I suggested that we might raise a sail. With the main up, and on an angle just slightly oblique to the now more developed swell, the boat finally began to settle into something approaching a comfortable rhythm. As the new day dawned, the wind dropped to around fifteen knots and the going began to get more pleasant. At around midday, just as Charles was handing me out a cup of coffee, the port davit gave up. It broke on a welded seam, dropping the overloaded back end of the dinghy, but remained hanging on by the barest remnant of the weld and swaying as the waves lifted and dropped the transom of the dinghy. The front still hung high on the intact starboard davit. I explained to Charles that we had a limited opportunity to save the situation, but that if necessary we would have to be prepared to cut everything loose if the dinghy began to present any danger to us or the boat.

We undid the stern lines and springs, snapped the broken section of the davit completely at the seam and jettisoned it into the dinghy. I hurriedly rigged a towing bridle and we lowered the front of the dinghy into the water and slowly paid out on the towing line. The situation was now in hand and we watched nervously to see how the dinghy would fare under tow, as the quartering swell buffeted its port sponson. It held, and we altered course for Fano concerned to bring the dinghy back to shore as quickly as possible.

The Dinghy under tow

We set our sails again and settled into a steady six knot cruising speed. I handed over the helm to Charles and lay down on the cockpit bench to sleep off the excitement. I awoke in the mid-afternoon to the unmistakeable sound of a flogging sail. The wind had reasserted itself with a vengeance, and the boat was humming along at between eight and nine knots in twenty knots, gusting up to twenty five. I groggily surveyed the sail plan, with no visible source for the sound of flogging presenting itself. I walked the foredeck and looking up on the leeward side realised that the top of the furled code zero sail had worked itself loose and was battering the backside of the headsail. I returned to the cockpit, explained to Charles that we would have to drop the code zero and outlined my flawed plan for how best to accomplish this. I proposed that he could man the halyard and I would simply manhandle the sail down from the pushpit whilst continuing to make headway to windward under sail.

 

This simpleminded approach, which I will of course attribute to my addled and sleep deprived state, failed to take into account two crucial factors; the significant pitching motion of the foredeck in the now well developed swell and the several square metres of the sail which had worked loose and was being buffeted every which way by the action of the wind and waves. We executed my flawed plan, with Charles paying out enough halyard to allow me to unclip the foot of the sail from its furler. As soon as I had done this I realised the shortcomings in my plan. As I attempted to pull the mostly furled sail down it began to writhe like an electrified snake, lifting me several feet clear of the deck and tossing me from side to side of the foredeck and trampolines. I immediately realised the foolishness of this attempt and that the sail had absolutely no respect for my eighty five odd kilos or intention of coming down under it.

 

I retreated to the cockpit, gripping the foot of the sail. The remainder thrashed about, flogging into the standing rigging. I explained to Charles that the situation had deteriorated and that we would have to bring it in hand immediately. To that end we quickly furled the headsail, dropped the main and brought the boat under power into the eye of the wind. I then passed the foot of the code zero to Charles through the gap between the coach house roof and the bimini and went to the mast to haul the partially unfurled sail back from the standing rigging. In this way, and with great effort and big bursts of adrenaline the electrified snake was brought to heel and hauled through the gap into the cockpit.

With order now restored we decided that our run of luck should dictate motoring the rest of the way to Fano with our fingers crossed. The remainder of the passage back to the coastline passed largely without incident, whilst I checked the code zero for signs of damage of which there were surprisingly none and Charles monitored the beleaguered tender as it pulled up and surfed down the waves on its towline. We reached the coastline about ten nautical miles north west of Fano and turned to port, hoping that the reduced fetch would lead to an improved sea state. This hope was in vain, as the wind was running perfectly side-shore and the swell was even more pronounced in the shallower water. We motored on regardless, debating whether we should stop in Fano or continue to Ancona, given that the wind seemed to be dropping and we would have to make up the thirty odd miles the following morning.

 

Whilst the respective merits of the two approaches were being considered, we were entertained with the antics of windsurfers, kiteboarders and laser sailors out enjoying the big breeze. As we drew within about five nautical miles of Fano Charles drew my attention to a craft right on our nose, which came in and out of view as it rode the swells. I altered course to port and tried to pick out the boat with my binoculars. It was a small sailing dinghy, with its sail lowered and its occupant frantically waving his arms in the universally understood manner communicating distress. I altered course again to bring us closer, but not too close, to attempt to communicate. 

As we drew nearer, the dinghy sailor screamed ‘the tender, the tender, collect me with your tender’. I responded that I would make a pan pan call to the coast guard and would stand by, but that my dinghy had possibly taken water and might not be fit to effect a rescue. We made off to a safe distance and I attempted to raise a pan pan on channel 16. There was no response. I then succeeded in attempting to radio the marina in Fano and explained the situation, gave our position and asked that the message be communicated to the coast guard immediately. I went back on deck and noticed that the wind, whilst it was dropping had gone onshore and was pushing both us and the stricken dinghy sailor towards the shore, which appeared to be iron bound with reefs and boulders, upon which the swell was breaking with some violence.

 

I was now presented with a difficult decision; would I risk attempting a rescue in a tender which had likely taken on a good deal of water under tow and might well break down and trust my safety to the silent coast guard or would I stand on and watch the dinghy and its occupant take their chances with the wave lashed shore. I told Charles that I believed I had to attempt a rescue and that in my view the worst case scenario was that if the tender broke down I could deploy its anchor and at least keep us both off the shore. 

We went into action then and I prepared to anchor in the still significant swell. I manned the foredeck and called to Charles to steady the boat with a burst of reverse thrust. This of course led to the tender’s towline immediately being pulled into the starboard prop. I dropped the anchor nevertheless and made preparations to start the tender. It had not shipped as much water as I would have expected and started with little persuasion, yet I still could not bring myself to trust it fully. We severed the fouled towline and I proceeded down wind and waves towards the dinghy, which was now within a half a nautical mile of the shore, which became increasingly nasty looking as it drew closer. 

I arrived at the dinghy and found its occupant in a state of mild shock. He explained that his rudder had broken a number of hours ago and he had been blown out to sea on the Sirocco. He told me that he had been sailing in company with other dinghies and could not understand why no one had come to rescue him when it became apparent that he was getting blown out to sea. He refused to allow me to tow him astern and it quickly became apparent that he was vastly concerned with avoiding damage or blemish of any kind to his boat, holding the tender at arm’s length as I attempted to tow him alongside in four to six foot waves. After ten minutes or so of this precarious position we were back within striking distance of the anchored catamaran. As we closed the gap, the tender’s engine naturally cut out. I took the dinghy’s painter and quickly grabbed one of the tender’s oars and with a burst of concerted paddling over the bow, managed to just reach the sugar scoop and hand off the painter to Charles. I manhandled the dinghy to the other sugar scoop and tied it off on its now greatly  truncated painter to an aft cleat. The situation was now at least somewhat in hand, fouled prop notwithstanding.

Towing by hand

 

It quickly became apparent that we had rescued a very agitated individual. Whilst I had been effecting the rescue, the coast guard had roused themselves and contacted Charles over the radio. He had communicated our position and they appeared greatly interested in the developing situation, yet not sufficiently concerned to send support. Once everything was in hand I radioed in to let them know they could stand down, in the event that they had ever stood up. They took my phone number and made number of attempts to communicate directly with the rescued party. He became increasingly frustrated with their questions and eventually began to scream down the phone, much to our bemusement. I explained to him that in our efforts to rescue him, we had fouled one of our props and my priority was therefore making it safely to Fano harbour. The rescued party made it clear that he wished to be conveyed to a beach near the harbour, where he could conveniently put ashore. I responded that I would now have greatly reduced manoeuvrability and that I could not justify the risk of approaching a lee shore to convenience him. He very grudgingly accepted my position.

 

We powered up our port engine and weighed anchor. It was but a few short nautical miles to Fano after the one hundred and fifty odd we had put down since leaving Monfalcone about twenty eight hours prior, but in the circumstances they were the longest yards yet. The rescued dinghy sailor had removed his dinghy’s daggerboard and was attempting to control his craft’s ensuing zig-zag tow by running from one side of the stern to the other and pulling on the painter, which was not attached to any cleat. His boat frequently looked like it was about to capsize. 

I had my own difficulty insofar as the unbalanced propulsion was constantly pushing my bow to starboard, towards the shore. I stood on until I was slightly past the harbour mouth, anticipating significant leeway from the wind and swell which were both running across my line in. I proceeded with great care, feeling out the extent the push to leeward and the boat’s tendency to pull to starboard with the wind fully on the beam. The pier walls were thankfully staggered, with the windward being the longer. Once inside this, the push to leeward from the wind and waves immediately ceased. My sigh of relief had no sooner left my lungs than an ear splitting cry of “Wait! Wait! Wait!” erupted from the stern. The errant dinghy, voluntarily deprived of any lateral resistance, which I have no doubt was done to avoid damage to a polished composite daggerboard, had capsized in the narrow harbour mouth and at the most critical moment possible. The rescued sailor immediately plunged into the water after his boat. Given the staggered nature of the harbour mouth’s walls I had just enough room to lean into the boat’s pull to starboard and abort the attempt to enter the harbour. I powered up and managed to narrowly avoid the end of the west pier wall.

 

At this point a rib emerged from the harbour and made for the again stricken dinghy. I had retained a hold on the dinghy’s painter and passed it over to the rib’s driver, wishing him luck with the remainder of the mission. The rescued sailor immediately began screaming at the rib’s driver to stay clear of his boat and demanding a tow back to his famous beach.

I then lined up for a second attempt at entering the harbour. It proved significantly easier this time and we were soon safely within the channel. However, despite my request for assistance at the pontoon, there was no-one there, except an old man and his wife, who watched our progress with great interest and ultimately took a line from us as we drew in. Just as a bad workman often blames his tools, I must blame the lack of a starboard engine from the fact that I cleaned a number of barnacles from Fano’s fuel pontoon with my port bow on arrival, just as night was falling on the 29^thof August.

 

Within five minutes of our arrival a coast guard vehicle appeared and discharged three masked and gloved coast guards. They were greatly interested in our details and what had brought us to Fano and thanked us for our assistance. I handed them the dinghy’s beautiful dagger-board, the want of which had been the author of our near ruin and told them to expect a visit from its concerned owner. As it was almost dark at this stage, I immediately dug out a swimming mask, armed myself with a bread knife and went to clearing the prop. It was a cathartic end to a very long day, dipping into warm waters and seeing how many times I would have to surface for air before the prop was clear. Twice as it turned out.

Once that was done we started both engines and proceeded to the harbour’s transit pontoon to clean up and take stock.