For those of you loyal readers who have been with us since the beginning, you’ve seen us through some sticky situations: our week of COVID isolation on the boat, a gummed-up fuel tank, a snapped throttle control, a snagged anchor, the wild Aegean meltemi winds, overheating batteries and a near-miss with the Ionian medicane. The learning curve in Season 1 was steep to say the least. I thought about quitting in Agios Nikolaos before we even got out of the marina and Ángel was so badly shaken by the medicane that he was ready to walk away from sailing life until the sights, sounds, and tastes of Siracusa, Sicily lured him back in.
So one of the joys of Season Two aboard Gradisca has been that… everything is working. Nothing (or nearly nothing, it is a boat after all) is breaking. And we have been able to truly relax and enjoy the sailing lifestyle. And while this may make for more boring blog entries for you all, it has also made for more enjoyable sailing for us.
Why such a difference?
Well, first and most importantly, we know our boat much better than we did last year. We know her systems, her quirks, her favorite points of sail. Docking or anchoring maneuvers for which I used to have to psych myself up are now routine; maintenance and fixes on the boat are familiar; and the day-to-day challenges of living aboard a sailboat have become our normal life.
Second, we’re better equipped to understand and troubleshoot issues on our boat because of upgrades and work we had done on her over the winter. After the epic Battery-Overcharging-Floating-Christmas-Tree debacle crossing the Ionian, we replaced all our batteries and re-wired the battery bank so there’s now a clearly labeled panel and we have far greater confidence in our ability to understand and control the battery cycling. We also replaced the faulty alternator that caused the batteries to overcharge in the first place. All of this is in addition to our far greater familiarity with the engine, plumbing, refrigeration, and other systems aboard.
Third, we’ve also invested in a few “lifestyle” upgrades that have made cruising more pleasant. We worked with an electrician to enable the inverter to distribute power to all of our outlets even when not plugged into shore power. (For the less electrically minded, we used to have to charge all our devices from a single outlet whenever we were at anchor which led to a lot of negotiations over whose phone / Kindle / computer / speakers should be charged first. Now we can merrily charge away as we like.) We also bought a portable air conditioning unit that we use when plugged into shore power– a practically lifesaving choice when we were in Corfu during the “heat dome” last month that caused temperatures to soar to an inconceivable 125 degrees Fahrenheit (more on this later!). These and other little adjustments have made our floating home even more comfortable than before.
Gradisca always felt like home, but now she feels like a home that isn’t booby-trapped with constant surprises. And this season we’ve enjoyed a type of cruising that had always remained a little out of reach: chilled-out, totally relaxed cruising. The type of cruising people pictured we were doing in Season 1 when what we really were doing then was watching YouTube videos about solenoid switches.
Last chapter, we left Sicily and after our terrific send-off from Mount Etna, we enjoyed a zippy sail across the Straits of Messina to Calabria, the toe of the Italian boot. Our first two stops were laid-back anchorages in Bova Marina and Soverato, two seaside Calabrian towns. In each, we dropped anchor and enjoyed the sunset while eating dinner in our floating restaurant for two as the sounds of Italy’s summer tunes wafted across the water.
The Calabrian coast is not “scene-y” like its northern neighbor Campania, which boasts famous sites like Capri or Ischia, and, in fact, many sailors pass through Calabria as quickly as possible, racing between the cruising grounds of Greece and Sicily. But we were happy to go a little slower and we enjoyed the local feel of these towns. It was refreshing to see beaches filled with local families, all sporting deep Mediterranean tans, the kids splashing in the water while the parents and grandparents stretched out under umbrellas.
But local summer chillaxation found its apotheosis in our next Calabrian town, Crotone, where we stayed for three nights. I doubt many cruisers spend three nights in Crotone; most people we saw were just using it as a quick water and fuel spot. We, however, were completely charmed.
We moored on the pontoon reserved for the Italian sailing league’s club in Crotone (the Lega Navale Italiana di Crotone), and perhaps this is part of the reason we fell for this town. If there’s one place Ángel feels comfortable, it’s a sailing club and this one was a gem. Faded photographs of sailboat crews, trophies held aloft, lined the walls and the place was kitted out with the bright multi-colored sailing pennants, model sailboats, and brass nautical fittings found in all good sailing clubs. You could feel the salt of generations of Italian sailors left behind at the bar.
The town itself was also charming and completely devoid of tourists. In three days, we saw a couple of Russian families, several French and one British couple, and possibly some Italian tourists but it was hard to know who among the Italians was a tourist and who was a local since everyone seemed set on the same plan: spend all day on the beach, take a nap, and then once the sun goes down, surge out in your finest attire to see and be seen.
Like many Mediterranean towns, Crotone came alive at night as the heat-induced torpor of day gave way to warm summer evenings. Clusters of teens bounded and performed like eager puppies, eyeing each other in the universal language of hopeful summer romance; multigenerational families sat down to dinner at 10 p.m. with both grandparents and toddlers still wide awake; and couples promenaded along with boardwalk in what by U.S. standards would be considered full-on formal attire. Still unvaccinated and not possessing a great amount of formal wear aboard, we mostly stayed out of the evening festivities, preferring an earlier dinner and then beachside walk with gelato, but it was nonetheless enjoyable to watch from afar.
Scenes of Crotone
And if a sailing club full of salty dogs is one of Ángel’s happiest places, then one of mine is the inside of an archaeological museum (preferably one with ancient Greek artifacts) and to our great surprise and delight, here too Crotone came through in spades.
Crotone (or Kroton as it was called when it was part of Magna Grecia) was founded in 710 BC and was a flourishing Greek city state boasting more than 50,000 inhabitants in 500 BC. The city was known for its athletes, sending many to the pan-Greek Olympic Games, including most famously Milo of Kroton who was renowned for his strength and won many wrestling events. In 530 BC Pythagorus, the famed philosopher and mathematician, established his school of Pythagoreans in Kroton.
Just outside the city on a rocky promontory is a lone column, the only remains of a once great temple built in the fifth century BC to honor the goddess Hera, wife of Zeus. We skipped the 8 km walk out to see the column (a white stone column is after all only a white stone column and this one is apparently an unadorned Doric one at that), but we instead walked through the winding streets of old-town Kroton to visit the National Archaeological Museum which houses many of the treasures that have been excavated from this site.
Not since the Archaeological Museum in Heraklion had we seen such inventive, detailed little creations and we marveled at the wondrous chance that brought us to this town. On further reflection, though, we wondered if it really was chance, because when you travel by sailboat, your path is largely dictated by safe harbors and anchorages. These are the same concerns that have been motivating civilizations since the ancient Greeks to settle in a particular city or region. As we gazed at a map of the Greek city-states in the region in which we’ve been sailing, we realized we have unintentionally visited many of them.
Perhaps it’s no coincidence, we thought, that we keep stumbling on wonders from long-lost seafaring cultures since we too are traveling at the mercy of the sea.
We finally left Crotone on July 25, my father’s birthday, for our first night sail of the season. After calling my Dad as we departed the city and marveling at the modern technology that allows us to have a video-chat from a boat in the middle of the Mediterranean with my parents back in California, we settled in for a night of sailing across the Gulf of Taranto. This sail would take us from Crotone, which is located on the bottom of the front part of the boot to Gallipoli in the inner part of the heel of the boot (just below what is labeled Taras in the image above).
The moon rose at around nine thirty, almost perfectly full, and flooded the gulf with silvery light, the waves an undulating flow of unspooling glimmering satin. After a few hours of pleasant sailing, snuggled in the cockpit listening to Ronan Farrow’s audiobook, we took it in turns to sleep. We’ve learned from past night sails that if I try to rest too early, I’ll just toss and turn, too distracted to sleep, so I have to take the first watch and exhaust myself. Ángel went below to sleep around midnight while I sat, headphones on, listening to podcasts and scanning the horizon for boats while the autopilot whirred intermittently, keeping us on a steady course.
We had our jib out on the spinnaker pole to catch as much as possible of the gentle downwind breeze and our progress was slow but steady. At around 4 a.m., we lost the wind and I woke up Ángel so we could take down the flapping sails and turn on the engine. Finally wiped, I slept until around 8 when we had wind again and we sailed into Gallipoli using only the jib and tied up on the town quay, which is located right in the midst of Gallipoli’s busy fishing port. I still don’t love night-sailing, but a sail like this reassured me that, while not our preferred mode, we can do it and with little drama or fanfare.
Gallipoli (not the Gallipoli in Turkey of WWI fame but an Italian town named for that other Gallipoli) was our first stop in Puglia, the region of Italy that covers the heel of the boot and is famed for its white limestone cliffs that flow into sparkling azure waters. After the low-key vibe of Calabria, Puglia was a step back onto the tourist map. This isn’t a knock on Gallipoli though. In fact, the city has much to recommend it. We had the freshest seafood we’d had in all of Italy here. We bought shrimp fresh off a fisherman’s boat and the seafood restaurants here burst with fresh octopus, shrimp, squid, sardines and the other small fish of the Mediterranean. Any bigger fish will doubtless be frozen (the Med being notoriously overfished) but Gallipoli’s access to the Gulf of Taranto ensured that at least these staples are served fresh.
The old town sits within fortified walls, an island, connected by a land bridge to the new part of town. It reminded us of Siracusa or Monemvasia, which are similarly both islands connected by a narrow land bridge to the mainland and which served as the fortified protection in the past.
Scenes of Gallipoli
But after several days in Gallipoli we were very ready to leave. Not because of tourists. Not because of noise. In fact, not because of any fault of the town itself. No, we were ready to leave because something called a “heat dome” had settled over southern Italy and Greece and we could no longer stand it. In Gallipoli we’d been tied up in the commercial port, the benefit of which of course is a free berth in the center of the city, but the drawback was that we couldn’t hop off the boat for a swim in the mucky port waters. And without electricity to plug into, we couldn’t pull out the trusty Argonaut, our portable air conditioning unit.
So after two nights, we beat a tactical retreat to the crystalline waters of Baia Verde and San Gregorio, two stunning anchorages where we proceeded to hop in and out of the water all day. This was my first experience with a heat dome, something we’ve heard the Pacific Northwest also experienced for the first time this year, and I must say, it really tested my normal capacity for heat tolerance. During the day we jumped between water and shade and at night we spread cold packs from the refrigerator on our limbs, our fan blasting on high all night.
On July 30, we anchored in our final Italian destination: Santa Maria di Leuca, a favorite jumping off point from Italy for those crossing the Ionian to Greece. Unlike last year’s crossing in which we sailed the 250 miles between the Greek island of Ithaka and bypassed the entire Puglian and Calabrian coastline, going straight to Sicily, this crossing would be only about 50 miles between the heel of the boot at Santa Maria and the islands just north of Corfu at the top of the Greek Ionian chain.
This looked set to be a far easier passage than last year’s Ionian crossing saga, but still we had to balance a couple factors as we planned our re-entry into this sailing paradise. First, Greece has a “cruising tax” that you pay by the month whether you sail one day or all the days of the month. We paid for August and September but had not paid for July so the first day we could enter Greek waters was August 1. Normally we probably wouldn’t have been too worried about coming a day or two early into Greece and just anchoring in a quiet bay to fly under the radar, but we also had to balance two other considerations.
First, we had to have a valid COVID-19 negative test from no more than 48 hours prior to our entry in the country.
And second, because we have a British-flagged boat, upon entering the country we had to check into a port of entry in Greece to obtain a “transit log”. The last time Gradisca had been in Greek waters (September of 2020), Britain still had not finalized their asinine departure from the EU and so our boat then had been an EU vessel. But now that Britain had firmly placed itself on the moronic side of history, we had become a “third-party” vessel and had to obtain a transit log from the Greek customs authorities to cruise Greece. But the closest port of entry was Corfu Town on the east side of the island of Corfu, which would mean going all the way over the top and around the far side the island- a 90 mile sail.
We had read about British boats being fined 2,000 Euros for not obtaining a transit log, so we called the customs officials in Corfu to ask if we could enter Greek waters and anchor one night in the islands to the north before going straight to the port of entry. They gave a vaguely favorable reply and so we sent an email confirming our plan, and receiving no response, decided to take silence as tacit assent.
The pharmacy in Santa Maria di Leuca didn’t perform COVID-19 antigen tests on the weekend so we got our tests at 7:30 p.m., as late as possible, on Friday, July 30 so that by the time we entered Greek waters the afternoon of Sunday August 1, they would still be just within the 48 hour window.
We sat crankily on our boat on Saturday July 31 as all the EU boats took off for Greece, catching a wonderful midday breeze that probably carried them perfectly to Erikoussa and Othoni, the two islands just to the north of Corfu that serve as puddle-jumps to the main island. These boats didn’t have to check into Greece and therefore could risk entering Greek waters a day or two early even without paying the July cruising tax. Left behind in the bay of Santa Maria di Leuca were a smattering of U.K., U.S., and Swiss boats who were all clearly making the same calculations as us.
On the morning of August 1 we left and began a long windless day of motoring to Erikkousa, where we anchored for the evening. We made sure to have our AIS geolocation turned on to record our time of entry into Greece to show we were (1) in August and (2) within the COVID time limits. The next morning we rose at 6 a.m. and sailed into Corfu Town. We docked in one of the most truly spectacular marinas we’ve ever stayed in. Built just at the foot of the old Venetian fort, Mandraki Marina shares its berths with the Corfu Sailing Club. A strip of boats nestled into the base of the fort, a local beach sparkling alongside and bougainvillea-bedecked cafe sitting just behind the boats.
We had no time though to marvel at the beauty, or even to hop into the water for a splash. We had two goals: (1) to go straight to the Greek Citizens’ Services Offices (called the KEP) to register for temporary Greek Social Security numbers so we could finally obtain a COVID-19 vaccine; and (2) get an unlimited Transit Log for Gradisca.
We set off, the sun beating down on us with a ferocity that had us sweating through our shirts in about six minutes. At the KEP, we stood in a sweltering line, only to learn that we needed an appointment to register. We made an appointment for the following morning and counted that as a partial victory. Not perfect but a good start.
Next we chugged a bottle of water and began the long slog out to the commercial ferry port, ready and excited to show all our Perfect Rule Following and Flawlessly Executed Documents to the Greek port officials.
It should surprise no one that the precise timing and meticulous machinations that Ángel and I obsessed over were of absolutely no concern to the port police. After a casual glance at our COVID tests and zero questions relating to our meticulously-planned timing of entry, she stamped our entry into Corfu and sent us to customs to get the Transit Log. Vaguely disappointed at the lack of questions but nonetheless buoyed that at least we were in the country, we began the blazing walk across the unshaded waterfront from the Port Police to the Greek Customs Office.
It’s a stereotype in the sailing world that Greek port officials are as incompetent as they are capricious. And I am sad to confirm that while this country is rightfully famous for its hospitality and for its overwhelmingly friendly and generous people, the Greek port officials are, as a whole, not a credit to their country. Before we could even enter the customs office, we were turned away and told that a ship from Albania had arrived and we couldn’t come in while they were being processed. Since standing in the 115 degree sun wasn’t too appealing, we joined forces with a British sailor who was also waiting and found a nearby bar where we sat out the heat with cold beers and stories about Greek bureaucracy. When we returned, we poked our heads into the office, and told the two men inside that we needed to be issued an Unlimited Transit Log.
“Go sit there.” one said, indicating some chairs in the waiting room.
We sat. We waited. We watched as they continued to chat away, exhibiting absolutely no visible signs that work of any sort was being carried out. 10 minutes passed. 15. Then 20….
Finally, a woman came in bearing a cardboard carrying-tray of iced coffees. One man got up and she took his seat behind the desk. As he grabbed his motorcycle helmet we realized what had happened: why take on work when your shift is about to be over?
After the first man left, the woman and the second man continued their conversation, sipping their coffees, carefully ignoring us. I got up and began hovering by the door, clutching our dossier of documents, trying to look friendly and businesslike as if by enacting the qualities I desired from these civil servants, I could somehow inspire them to act similarly. Finally the woman couldn’t avoid my eye anymore and waved us in.
We explained our situation, laying out our documentation: after Brexit, a British-flagged boat that (1) had paid EU VAT (taxes) when the UK was part of the EU and (2) was in EU waters at the time the change went into effect (December 31, 2020) is entitled to an Unlimited Transit Log to cruise Greek waters. Gradisca had been purchased in Greece with EU VAT paid over 20 years ago and blessedly we still had documents from the prior owners proving this (in Greek no less!). We also had documentation that she had been in EU waters over the winter in her berth in Sicily. Like any good lawyer, I had come prepared for the fight with a folio of documentation.
She listened but then asked,
“Who is the user?”
We both pointed to Ángel.
“Then you may have a one month transit log.”
“One month?? But we qualify for an Unlimited Transit Log!”
“You may have one month.”
“But we are going to be here for months! We have a contract, fully paid for one year in Preveza, Greece! We can’t have one month!”
The man decided to enter the conversation at this point, bellowing, “Then go to Preveza! Go to Preveza!”
“No, we are not going to Preveza.” I retorted, “We are entitled to an Unlimited Transit Log here. At our first point of entry!”
“But you say he is the user and he is a European. Europeans get a one month Transit Log.”
We both paused and then at the same moment that I said, “Then I am the user!” Ángel said, “Then she is the user!”
The woman’s eyes narrowed: “But you have said he is the user. Who is the user?”
“We’re both the user. We both live and sail the boat together. We’re both owners on the registration.” (We thanked our lucky stars again for the extra paperwork we’d done to register us as co-owners.)
After questioning me repeatedly on if I knew how to sail, she said skeptically,
“She’s American, so if she is the user, then you may have an 18-month Transit Log”
18 months sounded better than one so we all simmered down a little and she began filling out the paperwork. After a few minutes, Ángel asked cautiously,
“So…. how does one get an Unlimited Transit Log?”
“You have to have documents showing that you paid EU VAT.”
“Yes, we have that. That’s what we were trying to show you.”
“Oh well you cannot show us here. You have to show the other customs. They have to approve it.”
“Okay” he said, inching her toward the answer, “and where are the other customs?”
“They’re that way [pointing to where we had come from] but you have to have documents showing you paid the tax.”
“Yes, we have them.”
She looked at us in total annoyance, “Then why are you here? Why do you want the 18-Month Transit Log?”
While it was tempting at this point to scream “WE DON’T, YOU NITWIT!” Ángel took the wiser course, and patiently explained that we didn’t know there were two different customs offices and that we would go to the other and get the papers from them proving we are entitled to the Unlimited Transit Log and then return to this customs office. He suggested that if anything went wrong with these mysterious “other” custom officers, we could save the paperwork for the 18-Month Log and use that. This seemed to satisfy all parties except the woman who looked resentfully at the papers we’d made her fill out needlessly, but eventually even she relented and agreed to put the papers in a drawer for when we returned.
The “other” customs office (I’m still unclear on why there are two but doubtless there is some reason) was of course closed by this point, so we called it a day. We hadn’t completed any of our tasks but we had gotten marginally closer so that at least felt like a win. We went back to the marina and dove straight into the ocean.
The following morning, we left at 7:30 for our appointment at the KEP. Even this early, the temperatures had already risen to about 90 degrees. At night it never dipped below 85 and I had sung literal odes to our intrepid Argonaut who was, without a doubt, the only reason we could sleep. We were the first people in the door and we felt our luck turning as the helpful functionary processed our requests, handed us our numbers, and told us to wait several weeks for the numbers to be activated. Once active, we could register at any pharmacy in the country for a vaccine. After our many fruitless and exasperating trips to hospitals and vaccination centers in Sicily, this felt almost too good to be true.
Next up was the mysterious “other” customs office. They let only one of us enter “for COVID reasons,” so I sat outside for almost two hours while Ángel patiently went through our documents with the customs agent.
Here, we finally encountered the generous, proactive Greek spirit that we have come to love everywhere outside its port authorities. When shown our bill of sale and proof that VAT had been paid, the official said we were missing one part of the documentation. Unable to read the Greek documents and completely at a loss as to how to procure any documents from a twenty-year old translation, Ángel said he was stymied.
“Don’t worry,” said the officer and he pointed to the bill of sale. “The owner of this shipyard where they bought the boat, he’s an old friend.” And he picked up the phone, and after a lot of rapid-fire Greek, documents were spitting out of a fax machine from the shipyard in Athens.
Suddenly, we were back in the Greece we love. The Greece where people go out of their way to help strangers, where grocers hand you an extra watermelon on your way out or where your Airbnb host insists on driving you to the airport.
This morning reminded us that the government may be slow here; it may at times be infuriating. Greece is not, after all, a rich country. (The government offices and port authority buildings in which we had spent the past two days were mostly from the ‘80s, and the Unlimited Transit Log that ultimately was issued to us is a paper document, registered not in a computer but in a literal oversized leather-bound tome.) But it’s a country that has taken good care of us, that welcomes strangers, and where life is not about what you own but how you spend your time and who you spend it with.
We walked out of the customs office and, with gratitude, with a renewed faith that this was where we’re meant to be, and with our Greek vaccination numbers and Unlimited Transit Log, we staggered back to our boat ready for our second season in Greece.
1 comment
I will ForeVer be grateful to Greece for being the country where you eventually were vaccinated.