August 30, 2019
We managed to make it most of the way down the west coast of Corsica over the course of the day before the wind picked up and night began to fall. There was no way we were attempting to cross the Strait of Bonifacio with its numerous hazards in darkness, so we thought it best to find a safe anchorage for the night. We managed to find a small cove behind a lip of coastline that looked as if it would provide decent overnight shelter from the increasing wind and waves. As we rounded the lip, we were pleased to find a relatively deserted cove, save for a few small boats. The cove was a bit deep for anchoring purposes and mostly weed on the bottom, so we weren't 100% happy with the spot, but we were confident enough our anchor had dug and pretty much passed out as soon as we got below deck. We had another early wake up call in order to get Florence to the tip of Corsica, through the strait, and safely ensconced in a bay on the east side of the island all before the mistral hit the following afternoon.
We were up at dawn and took a few moments to enjoy the peacefulness of the anchorage in the pale light before we upped anchor and continued our journey south. There was certainly enough wind to sail that morning - a light harbinger of the whopper to come. So we set a conservative sail plan and were well on our way before the sun was fully up. Just as we were psyching ourselves up for the impending strait crossing, Stephen asked me if I could come to the chart plotter and take a look at something. "Does this look off to you?" he asked. "Where has all the data gone?" We both realised with a start that all of our chart information - names of places, navigation marks, hazards, and, crucially, depths - had disappeared. All that remained were the rough outlines of the coast. What the hell? We tried rebooting the navigation system a few times, taking the data card in and out, changing data cards, switching the data master from the nav station plotter to the cockpit plotter and back - absolutely no joy. It dawned on us that we had lost our electronic navigation systems. Thankfully we had paper charts and our Yachtmaster navigation theory relatively fresh in mind (who would have thought all those painstaking course-to-steer and estimated-position calculations would actually come in handy in 2019?!) Our paper chart for Corsica however was large-scale and didn't give us enough granular detail about the Strait of Bonifacio to make us comfortable relying on it alone for the crossing. We needed more information. Without panicking (OK, perhaps with a bit of panic on my end), we brainstormed our options. We were only an hour away from the strait and had no choice but to get through it and around to the other side of the island before the storm hit. Stephen reminded me that an app called Navionics can serve as a viable back up for the chart plotter, as both use the same navigation data. We thankfully still had a tiny big of 3G and were able to download the app on our iPad along with the relevant charts for the Med. Within 30 minutes we had a functioning electronic navigation system, albeit handheld on an iPad rather than built into our chart plotters. While I wasn't entirely comfortable with the different layout and functionality, we really didn't have a choice but to trust it and to get on with it - we were approaching the mouth of the strait.
As we sailed closer, we saw the famous white cliffs of Bonifacio on our port side rising high out of the sea and the fortified town perched on top. We couldn't see the entrance to the town's port, as it's just a narrow slit in the side of the cliff and difficult to see except when right upon it. No matter - we would not be stopping in hopes of the marina having a spot for us, which I doubted given the storm about to hit. We had researched a large bay called Gulfo Sant Amanza on the leeward side of the island that should provide decent enough protection from the mistral. We just needed to get through the strait! We did a very conservative passage plan, choosing only a few waypoints that would have us clear of the numerous hazards throughout the strait. It was by no means the shortest route, but as were adjusting to navigating by app rather than by chart plotter, we figured we didn't need to go all Cousteau on this particular crossing. The wind was strong, so we were making good time regardless of a slightly longer route. While both a little nervous as mid-day ticked by and we could feel the wind increasing, we found the crossing exhilarating. The strait was perhaps a bit dangerous given the hazards and traffic, but it was also beautiful. We had Corsica to our port side, Sardinia to our starboard, and some wild archipelagos to navigate among as we weaved our way east. As we turned to port after clearing the final cardinal mark, we took in the sails and decided to motor into the gulf that would be our home for the next 2-3 nights while we waited out this storm.
Gulfo Santa Amanza was large and absolutely stunning - 3 bays within one. It was wide, had high enough cliffs to provide protection from fierce westerly winds, and apparently boasted a lovely 5-star hotel on its shore should we want to get off the boat at any point (which I figured we well may given these mistrals can apparently blow for several days at a time, and being stuck on a boat that long could be tough on the psyche, and on a relationship, I imagine...). As we puttered around looking for a spot to hook, we headed for the section of the bay behind the tallest mountains, figuring this would be the most protected. We started to head in, me at the helm, Stephen at the bow ready to deploy the anchor, with my eye glued to the not-as-granular-as-I-would-like depth information on the iPad. It seemed to give depths in 10 and then 5-meter increments, but the difference between 5 and 3 meters for us is the difference between a great anchorage and Florence risking running aground, so I was hesitant to creep in too close to shore. When our depth gauge dropped suddenly from 7 meters below the keel to a mere 2, I yelled "Abort" and turned us around - too shallow for comfort without our chart plotters working! Further out, the seabed was more weed then sand, so it took us a few tries to hook. We would take as long as required, as we needed this baby to hold tight in the 30+ mph winds we were expecting to funnel in overnight. The mountains can only protect you so much from a mistral. Once settled, we both heaved a sigh of relief. Florence and her crew should be safe here for a few nights.
We found safety in numbers over the next hour as we saw several other sailboats anchor around us. This was definitely the right side of the island to be on! We went below deck to tidy up and to think about making some dinner. We checked Windy, our trusted weather app, again to confirm when to expect the worst of the winds that night. On the app, wind strengths are designated different colour gradations: blue is calm, green is good sailing wind, yellow/orange is quite strong, pink is stay the fuck away, and purple is Biblical. This mistral that was now just hitting the west coast of Corsica was dark pink, fading to yellow/orange once it reached the east side of the island. We could expect winds up to 35 knots in our anchorage that night, but not stronger supposedly. What concerned us more was another swath of pink we had not noticed previously racing down from northern Italy and towards Corsica from the east - what on earth was this? This was, we learned, another lovely wind phenomena of the Med called the Tramontane - a north or north-east wind that blows off the Italian coast, usually associated with clouds and rain, that often blows at gale force. Excellent. We had been so focused on the mistral, we hadn't looked at what was coming from the other direction. This wind was set to hit the east side of the island, where we thought we were safe, the following night. Is there any getting away from fierce blows on this island?? The west is untenable, and now it seems neither is the east. We regretted not trying our luck at a marina. All we could do at this point was take it one day at a time. At least our experience in St. Tropez had proved to us that our anchor, AKA Big Gripper, could do her job impressively when pushed. We put out as much anchor scope as our swinging radius would allow, set an anchor alarm, took additional transits, and hunkered below deck to wait out the mistral for the night.
One benefit of a strong wind is that it keeps the boat pretty much stationary as it's pulled taught on its anchor chain. So if you can get over the fact that you are hanging on to a chain in 40 knot winds, you might actually have a semi-peaceful night's sleep. Stephen and I decided to each wake up at intervals to check the anchor, and by the following morning, though the wind was still howling, the anchor was holding firm. Night 1: survived. Now what to do about this pesky tramontane threatening from the east? The forecast showed that while the mistral was supposed to die away temporarily that afternoon, it was scheduled to kick up again less than 24 hours later. Meanwhile, the tramontane was forecast to hit the east side of Corsica and blow pretty much straight into our anchorage that evening. We weighed what seemed to be our limited options. Most of the boats who had taken refuge in Sant Amanza the night before were filing out that morning, seemingly not wanting to deal with the Big Bad Tramontane. Given her pink/purple hue on Windy, I couldn't blame them. I assumed most boats were attempting to find refuge in marinas, as the west side of island would only be safe for another 20 hours or so before Episode 2 of the mistral hit the island. We assessed the severity of the oncoming tramontane and determined it didn't look as severe as the next wave of the mistral blowing through from the west. We thought if we moved Florence up to the top corner of the bay, we might be a bit more protected by the lip of the coast and only experience wind gusts of around 35mph, which Florence could certainly handle. What we were more concerned about was the accompanying swell of over a meter that would roll into the anchorage with the wind, which feels like being in a washing machine and is unbearably uncomforable on anchor. As we didn't feel like sprinting back through the strait for the night, only to have to make the same manoeuvre at the crack of dawn the following morning before the next wave of the mistral reared her ugly head from the west, we decided to try our luck on anchor and put up with any attending discomfort. Far from ideal, though we were fairly confident we would at least be safe.
We took advantage of a few hours of calm in the storm to move Florence to the top of the anchorage, where she would hopefully be a bit more protected that night. Then, as we appeared to have a bit of a wind reprieve for the next few hours (and who knew when we would get that again), we decided to take the window to get off the bloody boat (sorry, Florence). We hopped in the dinghy and went in search of this hotel we had heard about. We saw it tucked into the hillside - very organic-looking, so much so it was difficult to distinguish it from its rugged surroundings. The hotel had its own dinghy dock - this was boding well already. We tied up and marched up a steep hill to a large patio atop the cliff that sported numerous plush couches and tables, just begging us to collapse in them. Don't have to ask me twice! The hotel was lovely - very bohemian-chic, presenting itself as an oasis away from the pressures of the real world (or boat life), made evident by its complete lack of internet and cell reception. The hotel's moto was, we learned, "L'Art du Fait Rien" - the art of doing nothing. That sounded great to a couple of salty, dirty sailors who were growing a bit weary of dodging storms. We took a load off on a big sofa overlooking the water and decided for the next hour or so not to discuss weather-routing or how to fix our knackered navigation systems and to allow ourselves a moment or two of boat-free peace (if by peace you include hiking to the top of the nearby hill every 20 minutes to make sure Florence was still hanging in there on anchor - Ah, boat life :)
Once our plates had been cleared, we could feel the wind begin to pick up meaningfully. It's so strange being ashore during these big blows and seeing how little it stresses landlubbers. It's of very little if any consequence to them if it's blowing a gale out there, aside from the fact it might blow their towel away or ruffle their hair before dinner. I seriously envied that peace of mind. Meanwhile, we saw the white caps forming in the bay below and knew we had overstayed our welcome. Time to go back to reality! We settled up and hopped into the dinghy for a much livlier commute home than we'd had to the hotel. Back on board, we awaited the arrival of the tramontana and prepared ourselves for another night of interrupted sleep.
After a rocky night with a healthy dose of swell, we awoke the next day to find we were the only boat in the anchorage who had decided to stick out the tramontane. Can't say we were suprised, as it had been a rough night and looked to be a rough day ahead. At least in daylight, the wind and waves appeared more manageable, to my mind at least. It was clear we would not leaving the boat that day, as there would be no let up in the weather for another 24+ hours. Miss Mistral, meet Mr. Tramontane: we had winds coming at us from both east and west, with a very confused sea to boot. So we swallowed some sea sickness tablets and hunkerd down for what promised to be a pretty grim day. It was too rocky to be below deck without feeling a bit green, so we spent most of the day on deck checking the anchor and trying to get some reading done. With the boat pitching around, even a few hours on board felt like a mini-eternity. How much longer would we be stuck here? We checked Windy for the 1000th time and saw that the tramontane should calm down the following morning, around which time there also appeared to be a short reprieve in the mistral that was still blowing fiercely on the other side of the island and was forecast to continue for the next 5+ days... Jesus. We reckoned we had 1 of 2 options: we could hang on tight here on anchor for the next 5 days, without being able to leave the boat, or we could take advantage of what looked to be about a 6-hour break in the mistral during which time we could hopefully gun it back through the Bonifacio Strait and into the marina, which, although on the windward side of the island, was buried deep in a calanque and should be protected from the fierce winds. The thought of being stuck on anchor rocking around for the next 5-8 days sounded miserable. If we managed to make it into the marina during the brief weather window, at least we would be able to get on and off the boat over the course of the next week while we waited for the storm to blow through. We got on the phone and managed to get through to the Bonifacio marina staff who told us if we showed up the following day, they should be able to squeeze us in. I would have preferred a guaranteed reservation, but we would take what we could get. Decision made. The following morning after another rough night, we weighted anchor around 9 AM when we felt the wind die down slightly and began our passage back through the strait.
Now this was an exhilerating sail. We put out most of the main and the full jib, as we needed to make tracks to get to the other side of the island and into the marina before the mistral kicked back up that early afternoon. We were slightly on a beat, so we tacked our way through the strait and along the white cliffs that surround the southern tip of the island. It was impossible to see the entrance to the marina from our easterly approach, so we had to trust our iPad until we were practically upon it - a very narrow slit cut into the steep cliffs. We turned in and found ourselves in a narrow channel that took us deep into the calanque and thankfully away from the wind. This was seriously one of the coolest harbours Stephen and I had ever sailed into. Florence was surrounded by towering cliffs on either side and off to her starboard side was the famous walled town of Bonifacio, perched high above. Our appreciation of this crazy scenery was tempered by the fact that as we sailed deeper into the channel, we were having no luck getting ahold of the marina on Channel 9. I was at the helm, and we ended up stalling for about 30 minutes, manoeuvring around in a very tight space among other boats who were undoubtedly trying to escape the storm as well. Eventually, someone from the marina came out on a little rib and showed us to a spot at the very back of the marina against the harbour wall. I spun the boat around and began backing us in slowly so that Stephen could grab the mooring line tailed to the quai and attach it to Florence's bow.
We eventually got her tied up just before the wind really kicked up again. Even at the deepest part of the marina, we were experiencing up to 35 knots of wind, and Florence's bow was swaying back and forth rather aggressively. We asked the boat next to us if we could tie some lines to her to decrease our sway, to which they kindly obliged. As this mistral was forecast to get ever stronger throughout the afternoon and evening, we used every spare line we could find to secure Florence to the quai. Satisfied she was safe, we collapsed in the cockput and heaved a sigh of relief: we had gotten Florence from the east side of the island to the west and safely tied up in a marina just before the next leg of the mistral came barrelling through. Here, we could hopefully wait out the rest of the blow and not venture back out into open water until this bloody thing has passed! And from first glance, it seemed there could be far worse places to be stuck than Bonifacio. We had heard amazing things about the town and its history, and first impressions did not disappoint. We certainly won't be sailing anytime in the coming days, so let's check out what this ancient, fortified town that has apparently been the target of many a siege from the seas over the centuries has to offer.
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