Under the Vulcano

Position: 38°25’11″N 14°57’15″E

The grand entrance of a 35-foot red-hulled German sailboat into Porto di Ponente’s snug harbour immediately made Carol reach for her iPhone. Manned by three strapping young men, two on the foredeck and one at the helm, each of them stark bollock naked. And proudly so. “Nice boat!”, one of them called to Carol, referring of course to Aleta. Carol’s camera whirred in appreciation.

Our overnight passage back to the Aeolian Islands had ended with a flourish of sails and enough wind for five knots through the water. That lasted about an hour until we turned into the lee of Lipari Island and switched the motor back on for the short distance to Vulcano. We dropped our anchor next to our friends Robin and Bob who had wintered with us in Gaeta. The anchorage was lovely, until the end-of-week charters started piling in. By nightfall the place looked like a drive-in theatre. You could almost hop from one boat to another. Despite the crowd, no one woke up in angry dismay at being bumped in the night.

Bob and Robin were in high spirits after recovering from a summer fraught with medical and boatly complaints. Their trip to Greece involved fixing Windarra’s transmission and repairing Bob’s back after his hammock collapsed and dumped him unceremoniously on the cabin top. They found excellent transmission service in Corfu, and that straight gin does wonders for an ailing captain. I think the latter was a given.

Rotten Eggs

Vulcano’s claim to fame is its volcano. It last erupted in 1888 and has been quiescent ever since. That is long enough for a small tourist town to spring up and take care of the many day trippers throughout the summer. The 900 or so residents might forget they live on a thermonuclear device if it weren’t for clouds of sulphur dioxide hissing from the many fumaroles dotted around the place. I guess you get used to the smell of rotten eggs after a while. Though, when the wind shifts and the gas flows align, the air rasps your lungs like a bastard file.

Should you climb the small, 350-metre high, volcano, as we did with Bob as our guide, signs bedecked with skull and crossbones at the start of the trail warn you: ‘do not go near the smoke holes – extreme danger of intoxication’. (A bit like Jimmy’s Woodlawn Tap in Chicago when I was in high school.) It is a relatively easy stroll up to the crater, but there was no practical way to walk all the way around it. The north rim is blocked by active venting. Even our attempt at the summit via the south rim was cut short when the wind changed direction. This European-sized volcano is fully accessible on your own terms. After all, you were warned!

Sanguine

I’ve talked a lot about the terrors of crowded anchorages. I have grown more sanguine in the past four years. In settled weather there’s little chance of dragging and often the biggest problem is fetching your anchor out from under another boat when you’re ready to leave. My more relaxed attitude means I can now fully relish the anchoring antics of others. Particularly charterers on their first night out.

Shriners

After a couple of days we moved to the south end of the island for a change of scenery. Even though the bottom was all weeds and rocks, our normal routine of backing down and playing out the chain seemed to give us a good set.

Not so with the Americans who pulled in an hour before sunset on a Beneteau 51. They dropped, they dragged. They circled and dropped again. And dragged again. On the third try they seemed to hold. Until the wind picked up and a gust broadsided them. Their boat leaned over and broke free. For a good 10 minutes there was confusion on deck as they drifted straight for Sicily’s rocky north shore. Eventually, the engine started and they came back in search of another spot. The anchor dropped. Dragged. Dropped again, dumping chain in the hope it might help bed things down. By this time both Carol and I would have given up and gone elsewhere.

Except by now it was dark, the scene lit only by an orange streetlamp and the intermittent flash of the lighthouse. Without a hint of schadenfreude, it reminded me of watching a Shriner’s clown car at the circus when I was a kid. Sure enough, by the time the moon rose, they had slipped off again in another gust of wind. This time heading for the rocks below the lighthouse. To their credit they had posted an anchor watch. Fortunately, their last attempt held until morning. More importantly they didn’t bash into Aleta in the middle of the night.

We had a lovely time catching up with Robin and Bob and we promised to visit them once they settle into their newly rented home outside Gaeta. We still have a few hundred miles and several months to go before that can happen.