Nine Summers Page 16

  ‘Lipari’s only 5 miles to go,’ Felix announced.

  The volcanic peaks of Lipari dipped vertically into the sea, gouged by quarrying and volcanic activity. Dust and wind partially blinded us as we approached the primitive wooden jetty. Wind bullets cascading from the hills caused chaos on the water, where eddying gusts chased one another.

  ‘We’d better pull out and wait for a calm before we try to go alongside!’ Felix shouted above the noise.

  An hour later the ormeggiatore signalled us to come in to the only unoccupied space on the windward side of the jetty.

  There was nothing available on the lee side. We hesitated at first, but then went alongside. We strung out all the fenders we had to dampen the thuds as we rose and fell. The water was boiling, the wind wild. The ormeggiatore took our lines.

  ‘Grazie.’

  ‘Impossibile rimanere qui lungo tempo! It’s impossible to stay here long!’

  ‘Si, dove possiamo andare, where can we go?’

  He shrugged his shoulders and moved on. A woman whose boat was tied up on the lee side of the jetty came over. ‘It’s rough today, came out of nowhere last night. It was dead calm yesterday,’ she said in a heavy Dutch accent. ‘I think it’d be best if you moved to the other side of the bay.’ She pointed to a spot crammed with boats tied up to each other.

  She undid our lines and pushed out our bow. We made our way to Pignataro on the other side. It was packed with yachts trying to find shelter. Two boats moved to let us squeeze in between them and helped us tie up.

  It was another long, rough, sleepless night.

  The following morning the winds continued to blow mercilessly. Workmen came alongside the marina, which was in the process of being built.

  ‘Via, via…lavoro!’ We all had to move off. ‘Ach Gott,’ our German neighbour wailed, ‘now we’ll have to deal with the anchor mess.’ This time the untangling of the spaghetti involved four boats.

  ‘Doesn’t look as if the wind is going to abate. We won’t be able to go ashore.’

  And so, one boat after another left Pignataro and battled into a southerly towards Milazzo in Sicily.

  chapter six

  To be tied up along the quay in the centre of Milazzo, during the 1990 World Cup, when Italy was hosting the event, was an unforgettable experience. From dusk to dawn, cars and motorcycles roared up and down the esplanade, blaring horns. In the crowded trattorias and cafés along the harbour front, the mood mirrored the exploding fireworks. And above the pandemonium, Luciano Pavarotti’s voice soared, ‘VINCERA, VINCERA!’ The entire length of the marina was in celebration mood, toasting and singing. None of the yachties emerged on deck until late the next morning and instead of moving on, we stayed another three days to recover.

  The Dutch couple on the boat next to us had come from Yugoslavia.

  ‘It’s such a tense place,’ they said, ‘we decided to spend the summer in Sicily instead. The political situation there is bad, the country seems to be falling apart.’

  We’d heard how tense the situation was in Yugoslavia from a number of yachties. Most put it down to living for 40 years under communism and, now, its anticipated disintegration. Still, as we’d made arrangements to meet friends in Dubrovnik, we planned to move on.

  Like Steve in Ischia, they also warned us about storms in the Golfo di Squillace, the waters south of Calabria. In case of a rough passage, they suggested we sail into a port that didn’t appear on charts. In fact, theoretically, it didn’t exist. ‘But you can’t miss the entrance. It’s marked by a rusting, dilapidated yellow crane. The coordinates in case you need to go in there are Lat.38 19.54 N Long.16 26.04 E.’

  We cast off from the quay at the crack of dawn. The purring of our engine broke the night’s silence as we motored past moored container vessels, black silhouettes against a dark grey sky. A lone sailor stood on deck and waved. As we crossed the entrance lights to Milazzo’s harbour and headed for the open sea, a streak of pink lined the sky, and soon the sun’s arc appeared above the eastern horizon.

  The wind, which had blown all night, now registered 25 knots dead on the nose. We set a course for Capo Rasocolmo and Capo Peloro, the most easterly tip of Sicily and the dogleg entrance to the Strait of Messina. On both sides of this entrance are steep mountains from which notorious squalls blow. Once we were inside the Strait, we sailed past modern swordfish-fishing vessels moving slowly up and down. This was swordfish season, and as we’d discovered in the markets, they fetched high prices.

  In spring, swordfish migrate through the Strait in a southerly direction, but in June they travel north. They sleep or move very slowly during the day, which makes them easy targets for harpoons. Boats with massive steel lattice masts and a bowsprit longer than the length of the boat trawl for them. The captain steers from a perch in the crow’s nest at the top of the mast, while men with binoculars scan the water. My stomach heaved as I watched them sway 90 degrees back and forth.

  ‘Can you believe it?’ I said looking at both sides of the Strait. ‘We’re passing the very spot where Odysseus met the monsters.’ On the mainland to port in Calabria lay the tiny harbour of Scilla. To starboard in Sicily was Charybdis. According to myth, sea monsters lay in wait on both sides of the narrow Strait — Scylla, with her twelve feet and six heads, waited in a cave on the eastern side of the Strait, ready to prey on dolphins, swordfish and sailors. On the western side was Charybdis, a raging whirlpool that could swallow whole ships.

  In ancient times sailing through the Strait was perilous, yet some chose to risk this voyage rather than take the longer route around Sicily. Ships with powerful engines now have few problems negotiating these waters, but many yachts have had terrifying experiences. We stuck religiously to the Admiralty Pilot’s advice to ‘…enter the northern end of the Strait at the beginning of a south-going stream which occurs four hours after high tide in Gibtaltar.’ With the engine running, all sails drawing and a beam wind, we motored out of the Strait and entered Saline Ioniche in Calabria at 4 o’clock. We’d had a dream run.

  ‘What sort of music would you like to celebrate rounding the toe of Italy?’

  ‘Canzoni Napoletani, of course,’ Felix replied.

  Apart from a lone fishing vessel tied up to a long quay, Saline Ioniche, a newly built harbour with facilities for merchant ships, was empty. The two men on board the fishing boat waved and helped us tie up behind them.

  In one corner of the port stood a square building several storeys high. It looked deserted. The silence was eerie. Late in the afternoon a French, a Dutch and two Norwegian yachts pulled in and dropped anchors in mid-harbour.

  ‘I think we should have an early night and leave first thing in the morning.’ Felix switched on the radio to get a forecast, but nothing came on air.

  At 10 o’clock we heard a fishing boat tie up immediately behind us along the quay. Felix climbed out to see that all was OK, and mentioned that a few more yachts had pulled in, then got back into bed. I’d always admired his ability to wake up, do whatever he had to do, lie back and, within seconds, be fast asleep. Eventually I, too, got to sleep.

  A sudden wild swaying and the thud of fenders shook us out of our bunks and sent us rushing onto the deck. ‘Bloody boom’s loose, watch your head!’ Felix yelled. A howling wind whistled high-pitched tunes through the stays.

  ‘It’s registering 35!’ I screamed back. Pandemonium reigned all around us. Galatea, the only yacht tied up to the quay, was sandwiched between two fishing vessels. Along the quay, fishermen were out in force, grappling with lines and fenders. Men shouted and engines roared, making ready to move off to the other side for shelter.

  No matter how hard I turned the wheel, the force of waves crashing onto our deck pushed us back against the quay. Gesticulating and shouting instructions, two fishermen jumped on board to help us push Galatea out, as the stern of their boat threatened to climb onto our bow. We held our breath each time a wave heaved their stern aloft, then slipped and let it fall with a thu
d into the foaming water. At the same time, Galatea was rising and falling. Each time her bow heaved, my stomach sank.

  ‘For Chrissake don’t fend off with your leg!’ Felix yelled. ‘Go back to the wheel and turn as hard as you can!’

  At the peak of one rise, the four of us succeeded in pushing our bow to port and extricating ourselves from the quay. I slumped with relief onto the cockpit seat. Felix took the wheel.

  Silhouetted against the breakwater in mid-harbour, yachts swung perilously close to one another. Crews on deck shouted instructions into a ferocious wind. The Dutch boat’s anchor had broken loose and its engine refused to start. Two of their men were in a dinghy. One grappled with the anchor chain while the other strained at the oars to hold their drifting boat off the French yacht. The French were on deck ready with fenders.

  As we passed them, the Dutch yacht’s engine came alive and they joined the procession of boats, a line of swaying masts and gleaming hulls, as they crossed the beam of a high moon towards shelter in the basin on the other side.

  Although we were packed close to one another, we sensed the sighs of relief. Waves continued to crash onto the quay, but in our corner of the harbour it was comparatively quiet. Everyone had put down anchors, and helped to fend off or tie up drifting vessels. We felt warm and safe in our sheltered corner; the camaraderie was palpable, everyone kept watch and the night passed slowly. Most were too tired to talk.

  But the dawn! The spectacular dawn that invariably follows a night when the wind has blown remorselessly. A plum red arc rose gradually from the sea and, as it lightened, apricot yellows chased the scarlets and, high above, fleecy cauliflower clouds scudded past. We took deep breaths. The long night was over.

  We stood and gesticulated brief messages to people on other boats. The rough night was etched on our faces. Felix turned to me, ‘Let’s have breakfast, then you go down and get some sleep. I’ll keep watch and sleep later.’ It continued to blow all day. No matter how hard he tried, Felix couldn’t get a forecast. Later, someone managed to get a Messina radio forecast for ‘lessening winds’ and passed on the message.

  In the afternoon, we saw the two fishermen who’d helped us, mending nets on their deck. We called out, and asked them to come over. Looking pleased to have a break, they got into a dinghy and rowed across.

  The older of the two was a short, stocky man, with a kind face, thick slate-grey hair, a network of wrinkles and spatulate hands. His shirt was shabby and buttoned at the neck, his trousers worn and turned up at the ankles. He looked in his 60s but was probably ten years younger. Fishing ages men quickly. Unlike his younger partner, he was shy and ill at ease as Felix took his line and helped him step on board. The younger man belonged to the cool, new generation, in the universal jeans, T-shirt and sneakers. Tall, muscular and bronzed, he exuded an air of confidence his companion lacked.

  Inhibitions are shed more easily when you’ve shared a storm. Add a bottle of wine, and stories take off. The young man needed no prodding. With our Italian, his few words of English and some body language, we had no problems.

  ‘This is a good harbour to be in when it blows a sirocco. To be outside in this burasca is no good. Before they built this harbour my father used to tell me, you were lucky not to drown. He was a fisherman too. But he’s dead now. This is his brother, my uncle,’ he said pointing to the older man. ‘All the men in our family are fishermen. When we were growing up we wanted to learn something different, to have a better life. The government was going to bring industry to the South, but things didn’t work out.

  ‘Take this port. When they built it fifteen years ago, they made it big enough to handle ships up to 10 000 tonnes. They even built the rail tracks for transport. This factory over there…’ he said, pointing to the large building at the corner of the port, ‘it was going to employ 3000 people. We were going to can fruit and fish. But you know what, not a single person has ever worked in that factory. Nothing. The only people who use this port are fishermen or yachts looking for shelter. We’re only allowed to come in if it’s blowing, but we use it anyway even if we’re not supposed to. The town is not too far away, but nobody comes here.’ He was angry. The old man looked on, wistful. He listened but said nothing. Now and again he nodded.

  ‘Why is that?’ I asked. ‘Why? Why? You ask?’ His mouth curled in a sardonic smile, he looked at his uncle. They exchanged knowing looks and shrugged their shoulders. I saw in the gentle eyes of that older man the quintessential Southern Italian, who from birth had been taught to expect a life of hard work and subservience, to ‘know his place’. He tilted his head to one side and smiled to himself.

  After a short silence the young fisherman changed the subject.

  ‘Australia is a good place? Easy to find work?’

  ‘Yes, it’s a good place. There are many Italians in Australia,’ I said.

  ‘I have a friend in Australia. He went there five years ago. He says it’s very good there. I wanted to go when I got married but my wife didn’t want to be away from her family. She said she’d rather I stayed a fisherman. I could go to the North, to Milano, Torino…plenty of work there, and good money. I could earn more there, but that’s not so good for my wife. So I stayed here and I work with my uncle. This way at least I feel more free…’

  When we’d emptied the bottle, they said they’d better get back to their nets.

  Sometime later, the old man returned to give us two fish he’d gutted and cleaned for us.

  ‘I wonder what the real story is about this place, this factory,’ Felix said as we waved him goodbye.

  ‘Not hard to work out,’ I said. ‘That building over there is a monument to bribery, greed, protection money and politics. When one reads about the millions spent trying to develop Italy’s South, the Mezzogiorno, one can have a guess at how contracts were handed out, money syphoned off. Then someone didn’t pay someone who should have paid someone else. So here’s this huge complex that’s never been used…they call it “il problema del Mezzogiorno”.’

  In the evening, a Dutchman and two Frenchmen came on board. As with the two fishermen, it was easy to establish a rapport. Trouble at sea breaks down most yachties’ innate reserve. There’s a shared experience you can talk about for hours, and invariably one story leads to another. Everyone has a story about a terrible passage. We all laughed, in that senseless way you laugh when you’re very tired and you’ve had some wine. You don’t need much on these occasions.

  After two nights and a day the wind died down completely. When we stepped on deck in the morning, the boats were covered in sand and grit. ‘Memento from North Africa.’ The fishermen had warned us to expect that.

  ****

  ‘So we’ll all leave very early tomorrow and meet in Roccella,’ Stefan, one of the yachties said. ‘Do you have the coordinates?’ his mate André asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Felix pointed to the pencil mark on the chart. ‘It’s the only shelter between Saline and Crotone, a tiny harbour, never been completed. As you can see, not marked on any of the charts. The Dutch yachtie who told me about it said to look for a large abandoned yellow crane right near the entrance. But there are no lights, so you can’t go in after dark.’

  ‘OK, so we’ll meet there tomorrow. Should get there in the afternoon. Better get some sleep now. Have a good sail everyone!’

  We set off at 6. It was pleasant drifting in a light breeze along the Calabrian coast. The Aspromonte Massif, a steep mountain range, forms the tip of Calabria. Its many caves, gorges and densely wooded ravines are known as places where kidnappers hide victims. J. Paul Getty’s grandson was abducted and hidden here in 1973, and it allegedly took a piece of his ear to convince the old man to pay the ransom. But none of this — the kidnappers, the Mafia, N’dragheta or Camorra — entered our minds as we sailed on this summer’s day.

  By 11, however, the wind had died down, the sea was glassy and the headsail hung limp. The sun beat through the haze and our faces were bright red.

  ‘It�
��ll take forever to get there at this rate. I’ll take down the main and the headsail, and we should start the engine.’ I waited while Felix took down the sails, then turned the ignition key. The engine revved and I put her into gear.

  CLONCK! ‘SHIT!...Something’s collapsed.’

  Felix leapt into the cockpit, took the wheel and tried to shift the gear handle.

  CLONCK! ‘Doesn’t sound good.’ He stepped down the gangway and removed the partitions around the engine. I stayed on deck. It was dead calm and we were drifting with the slight movement of the sea. The other yachts, all under motor, had now passed us and were too far away to see that we were in trouble. Steve’s warning rang in my ears. ‘…an absolute lull can mean a blow on the way. This place wasn’t called the Gulf of Squalls for nothing. It terrified old mariners hundreds of years ago. It still does…’

  Before leaving Saline we’d agreed to stay in radio contact with André on channel 16. ‘Call the Mistique! Tell them we have no engine, so they’ll know what happened in case we don’t make it to Roccella.’ I turned on the VHF and called them several times, but there was no reply.

  ‘They must have forgotten to turn on the radio.’

  ‘I have this terrible feeling it’s the gearbox, probably a broken drive plate,’ Felix said.

  My stomach sank. ‘We’ll have to put up the sails again and hope we get some wind. It’s still a long way to Roccella. And we can’t go in after dark.’

  The sails hung limp, the air smelt hot and gritty, the cockpit was like an oven. I took a bucket, scooped sea water and tossed it on the deck. I felt my head pound.

  Felix handed me a wet tea towel. ‘Here honey, put this on your head.’

  ‘What’ll we do?’ I was talking to myself. ‘We can always pray.’

  ‘Don’t be funny, I can’t take it.’

  Felix looked up at the sails, then shook his head. He went down to the VHF and tried several times to raise one of the yachts, but there was no response. At 2 o’clock, scattered clouds hid the sun. Then a sudden breeze swung the boom to port, the mainsail flapped, and we started to move. Felix gave me a hug, and I burst out laughing. The breeze steadied and we made good progress.