The Boys of Syracuse – Photos

Position: 37°03’39″N 15°16’43″E

We found Brendan supine on a bench just off the harbour front in Crotone. It was a position he would maintain for a good deal of his time on Aleta. Something we strive for with our guests is to make sailing as relaxing as possible. To make their visit as distracting as we can from whatever day-to-day worries and stresses they have. We take it as a compliment when they sleep. In Brendan’s case he was shaking off an overnight train trip from Nice, along with months of transnational business with Australia calling early in the morning and Americans making demands late into the evening. He deserved a break.

We on the other hand had started racing the Schengen clock. We spent a week longer in Greece than we should have. Our objective was Ragusa on Sicily’s south coast where Aleta would stay while we went to the UK for Katie’s wedding and where we’d bank a little Euro time. The rules state you’re allowed 90 days out of 180, unless you’re a citizen of an EU country, of course. Britain having Brexited left hundreds of its cruisers mystified as to why immigration officers across Europe were suddenly treating them like foreigners. Such things happen to those who don’t read the fine print, even if it comes down the horn of a megaphone.

The weather cooperated more than expected, delaying us only a day with 30 knot winds and 1-2 metre seas off Crotone’s harbour. The northeasterlies calmed enough overnight that we snuck around the corner first thing in the morning and sailed downwind until lunchtime.

Doberman

On cue, just outside Rocella Ionica, our stop for the night, the engine cut out. It warbled a bit, dropped revs and then died. Aleta’s mainsail hung limply, wishing it could help. I took off my Captain’s hat and tossed it to Carol. Cramming an imaginary motor pool cap on my head I did my best Doberman impersonation and dived into the engine room.

Channeling Sergeant Bilko’s hapless mechanic I inspected the fuel filter. It was dirty. I changed it for a clean one. Then I pumped the fuel lines and cursed. But somehow the right mumbo jumbo came together and Aleta started long enough for us to get berthed and break out some cold beers. (The heat in the Med this year has been deplorable. And, yes, it’s always 20 degrees warmer in harbour [choose your temperature scale]. Thank goodness the fridge has kept up.)

The next morning, as sometimes happens, a thought occurred to me: it might be the fuel pump! Switching on the ignition we usually hear the rapid, rhythmic tick of the pump lifting diesel into the engine. Nothing. This happened before. Years ago. Bad connections. After checking that power came down the wire, a quick cleaning and recrimping did the trick.

Syracuse

Aleta fired up and we departed for the long crossing from Rocella to Syracuse. Winds proved elusive, but at least the swell didn’t slow us down. Syracuse’s well protected, natural, and nearly empty harbour proved a perfect stopping point. The old town sports both good restaurants and enough history that it kept us occupied between meals.

During the week or so Brendan was with us, a couple of our anchorages proved respectively noisy and rolly, making for an indifferent night’s sleep. After five years our tolerance of swell has improved. However, our patience with beachside discos vying for the world’s loudest man-made noise has fully failed us. Brendan’s visit was companionly, relaxed, and despite those inconveniences, I hope recuperative. While we bid adieu at Ragusa, we have kept a lifejacket ready for his return.

Photos: Syracuse