June 27, 2019
I woke up feeling lighter already for our conversation of the prior evening. Just taking the pressure off a bit will go a long way to making this trip enjoyable rather than a chore, I think. We were both ready to have a day of relaxation after our foibles of the previous day. I went on deck ready to start the day right by jumping into the crystal blue water and letting the salt and sun cure all my ills. Uh oh, I spoke too soon. Of course, when we tried to start our generator, the system that provides all power to the boat, it didn't work. It started OK, but when we turned on our watermaker, which uses a good amount of generator power, the whole system shut down and all these strange error lights started blinking. The swim would have to wait. After 2 hours of troubleshooting in our underwear, sweating like pigs as we dug out all the manuals and spread them out on the table, got our head torches on and went under the floorboards to check the system's various parts, we figured out the problem and then the solution. It turned out to be a simple fix. The generator is a smart system, and when it gets overloaded, it will go into self-protection mode and shut down before it does any damage to itself. We had apparently turned on the watermaker too soon after firing up the generator, and it was too busy reloading the boat's batteries to have enough power to fuel the watermaker at the same time. We should have waited to see the DC amperage levels decrease on the generator panel before we added high-load items to the mix. Live and learn! We also located the clever trip switch controlled from the engine room that required just a simple flick, and we were back in business. Though it was not the relaxing morning we had planned, there is something very satisfying about solving a problem on our own, especially on something as mission critical as the generator.
We figured while we were at it, we might as well try to sort out that bloody pole that had threatened to kill us the day before. We figured out exactly how it was supposed to attach to the mast and what we needed to do to slot it back in and ensure it was secure. It seems the attachment had just jostled loose in those choppy seas and needed slotting back in, which if done properly, should keep the pole secure. We located the attachment on the mast, called the donkey pole (yes, that's actually what it's called - see photo below) and slid the pole back into it until we heard a satisfying clunk. We hoisted the pole back up so it sat flush with the mast and secured it from the bottom as well. Let's hope this damn thing stays in place this time!
With nothing broken on the boat that required immediate attention, we celebrated by going ashore and using our legs for the first time in what seemed like weeks. This has been another adjustment to boat life: Stephen and I are both runners who used to bang out the miles around London's streets and parks. For me, running is not only exercise but more importantly my therapy. It provides a crucial outlet for me to clear my head and to press the reset button as I pound the pavement, ending the run feeling happier, heartier, and hungrier! I have been struggling to find ways to exercise on the boat, and it's been playing on my psyche. This was a very welcome, if hot, excursion. We dinghied ashore, stashing Rum Jumby on the little beach where we had dined the night before, and ran along a dirt path up to the main road and into the next port over, called Cala Portinatx. It was decidedly much busier than our sleepy bay, the waterfront cluttered with resorts and holiday makers getting roasted to a crisp on the beach. Still, it was lovely, the bright turquoise water looking incredibly inviting to the sweaty joggers. We did a couple quick errands, then came back with an even greater appreciation for our near-deserted anchorage.
The joys of finding a good anchorage really cannot be understated. Especially in the Med, which can get chockablock in summer, finding somewhere protected from the wind and waves where you have good holding in sand or mud, with few if any other boats around feels like finding the holy grail. Cala Xucla is just such a place, and we were going to stay and enjoy it for a few days. We decompressed on the boat, cooked a healthy stir fry dinner, and listened to a somewhat cheesy and predicable Spotify playlist called “Ibiza Sunsets," which felt appropriate as we watched the sun set over the cala.
Moments like this are what it’s about - enjoying each other’s company and enjoying our beautiful boat, now the only boat in this wide and absolutely breathtaking bay. We went for a dip after dinner before sleeping the sleep of those who know their anchor is well and truly dug in a protected bay and know they do not have to move the following day. SERENITY NOW!
We woke up feeling better rested than we had in perhaps weeks. It was another glorious, if very HOT, day in paradise. We were again the only boat in the anchorage that morning, which we found remarkable considering how absolutely lousy with other boats and especially super yachts our last two anchorages had gotten. We felt like we had really uncovered a hidden treasure up north, which is one of the reasons we wanted to buy this boat and do this crazy thing in the first place. We wanted to find the places you just don’t typically see from land. We enjoyed what we hoped to become our morning routine of a dive in the sea, then letting the sun dry our skin while sipping coffee, eating toast and listening to a podcast (current favourites include Micheal Lewis's Against the Rules, The Economist, and the NYT Daily). Though sometimes we prefer listening to classical music in the morning rather than tuning into the latest news, as one of the nicest things about this trip so far has been getting away from the endless stream of depressing headlines on Trump, Brexit, etc. Bobbing out here in the sea, it's nice to feel somewhat removed, if only superficially, from all that chaos. Then, in keeping with our new initiative to work out more, I suggested a long swim to the closest beach. I dove in the water with hopes of becoming the female Michael Phelps. Surely this would become my new running: long and powerful swims each day where I’m working all my muscle groups and getting super jacked (Note: I'm not a great swimmer, but I was trying on the glass-half-full attitude for a change). About half way to the beach, enjoying the sunlight rippling off the crystal clear surface of the water, I got caught up in a moment of pure joy and contentment. I paused to do a couple somersaults and to revel in the moment - I’m alive! I’m free! I’m - OUCH! Suddenly and without warning, the whole left side of my face lit on fire, a searing pain the likes of which I had never felt before. I knew immediately it must be a jellyfish sting. I surfaced and realised I was in the middle of a whole swarm of them, maybe 25 dark purple jellies, smallish but with long, billowing tentacles that were impossible to avoid. In quick succession, I got nailed again on the back of my right arm and on my side as I frantically tried to swim away. Stephen heard my screams, and I told him what happened. As we were still a good distance from the beach, it was good fortune that a Spanish couple who had rented one of those silly pedal-o contraptions with a slide on top peddled over and offered to give us a lift to the beach. I clamboured aboard, feeling the left side of my face swelling up like a blowfish. Stephen, sitting next to me, was trying to tell me it wasn't so bad, but I could tell by his wincing expression he was lying and I probably looked like bloated beef carpaccio. Once on the beach, we rushed to the little lunch shack, where they were johnny on the spot with vinegar to soak my wounds in. I caught my reflection in the window and saw by this time my face was extremely red, swollen, and bubbling. Yum. It just had to be my face, didn't it? Couldn't have caught my foot or my thigh or really anywhere else -just smack across the whole left side of my face. Brilliant. And just to address the old wives tale: NO YOU ARE NOT SUPPOSED TO PEE ON A JELLYFISH STING. The number of times when people hearing this story immediately looked at Stephen with these wide-eyed, stupid grins on their faces, anticipating the next twist... NO, that is not what we did. Vinegar will take the sting out, then you are meant to pick out any still offending barbs with tweezers (thank god I didn't seem to have any visible), then treat with hot water and cortisone cream. We didn't have the cream, and as we were in Spain where pharmacies are not open on weekends, so we'd have to do without. There was a very nice couple who offered their help, as their daughter had apparently been stung last summer on this beach. The husband, a retired financier well into his late 60s, kindly offered to peddle us back to our boat on one of the ridiculous pedalo-slide contraptions, which was really our only option as I couldn't swim. We must have looked an odd sight, two grown men peddling this children's toy out to sea while an extremely distressed looking woman clutched her face in the backseat. He also offered for us to come stay with him and his wife in their villa located just 5 mins away if we needed anything else that evening, which by his account had “rooms on rooms on rooms” at our disposal. Not going to lie, Stephen and I seriously considered taking him up on the offer just to check the place out and spend a night in the lap of luxury. Though we could also envision a scenario where that plan took a dark turn, so we decided we'd stick to Florence. Alas, the vinegar seemed to work wonders, and the burns, while still quite painful and swollen, were settling down. I was actually back in the water about an hour later, not because I’m particularly brave, but more because in the continued absence of our bimini in 95 degree heat, jumping in the water was the only way to stay cool.
(Here I am sparing you a picture of my beef carpaccio face - trust me, you are better off).
That night, I decided my face had endured enough trauma to warrant a night out of the galley and on dry land. Our white knight from that afternoon had told us about a small beach shack overlooking the bay that, while plain to the eye, served what was to his mind the best paella on the island. Sold - I had been craving paella since arriving in Spain. We snagged a table right by the rocky cliffs and watched the sun set over our lovely home, bobbing just off the coast, while eating an absolutely ungodly amount of paella, washed down with cheap and cheerful Spanish wine. The moral of this story? Eat more paella, drink more wine, and work out less - it’s just too dangerous! :)
Loving it xx