Mediterranean Musings #1: The Right Side of the Wall

Greece, March 08

Lying alongside a pockmarked concrete wall with rusty iron rings about to oxidize into nothingness, is no place to be when Aeolus decides to air mail 50- knot blasts down the steep mountain sides bordering the Gulf of Corinth. Surprisingly Quetzal was on the right side of the wall. The fearful gusts laying the boat over 15 degrees or more placed the load squarely on the mooring lines, not the fenders, and despite the afore mentioned rings, I was more than satisfied with that arrangement. If a ring failed, there were a few wobbly lamp posts available to take the lines. I’d rather deal with chafed lines than marred topsides.

Concerned crews on other boats had to brave icy rain and pea sized hail to adjust and readjust their fenders and lines. Their pinched faces told the story. They were worried, they were pissed. They were up against it, we were floating free. An occasional thump and sick squeal of fiberglass hitting the dock was followed by frantic shouts. Twenty years ago I would have felt like a genius, these days I have a lot more respect for dumb luck and for advice from fellow cruisers who waved me out of the inner harbor at the last minute and suggested that I lay on the other side of the wall. The right side of the wall. Mediterranean sailing tests your resolve. That old saw, “there’s either no wind or a capful,” is distressingly accurate.”

Huddled behind the dodger I admired the sounds of the wind. It reminded me of Beethoven, really. You heard it before you felt it. It built slowly but inexorably, first discernable as a hollow echo ricocheting around the boarded up buildings across the harbor. Then it mushroomed into a hum, the sure sign that it was gathering steam and coming our way again. Then it reached a higher pitch, a warning pitch. Hold on. Then it was on us, a powerful, rig rattling crescendi, at once a panicked screech and a deep throated moan merged in pure definition of wind. It was beautiful. It was terrifying.

It was beautiful to be tied to the right side of a wall. I love weather, good, bad, brutal, benign. You have to love weather to sail, you can’t hide from it, you can’t worry about forecasting its every move, you simply have to love it, it makes me feel very small, very alive. But soon guilt overtook me. Enough Beethoven already. My crew was ashore looking for fresh bread and more wine, I had no excuse to stay dry any longer. It was time to do what we sailors
do. I pulled on my foul weather gear and climbed on to the wall. Hail pelted down on me, the wind nearly blew into the water. But I reminded myself that I loved weather, all weather and scooted down the slippery, flooded quay to lend a hand, to push and prod, to squeeze fenders back into place. A French couple with two young children thanked me profusely. “No problem,” I assured them because next time I knew I’d be back where I belonged, on the wrong side of the wall.