The Art of Anchoring Like an Idiot

The white boat dropped its anchor on top of the red boat's anchor. Two minutes later they were doing an intimate dance to the music of much shouting. The solo sailor on the red boat was surprisingly patient while instructing them how to disengage their anchor from his chain. 

For about an hour I watched this Portuguese-flagged boat crewed by a large French family repeatedly attempt to anchor on top of other boats, including mine - twice! It was good entertainment that ended when they accidentally dropped their anchor in a open area. Nobody was yelling at them there so they stayed in their lonely spot 30 m from the closest boat. You have to wonder what was going through their minds and whether they had ever anchored before or even had any theoretical knowledge about the art of anchoring.

After a 7-hour trip (350 km on two buses), I arrived in Olhão, Algarve, on a hot day. A confused twenty minute walk through narrow streets took me to the port where I hailed a flimsy water taxi with a 100-hp outboard that took off at full speed along the channel violently punching the choppy water toward where I had left Jakatar at anchor. I had to keep my mouth shut to keep my teeth from chattering.

"I'm anchored about 300 meters directly in front of the marina entrance," I told the driver. But there, in my spot, I saw another sailboat. After recovering from a sudden empty gut sensation, I glanced around and saw Jakatar about 200 m farther east.

The fenders I had left hanging from the sissy bars were all all deployed from the lifelines at nearly deck level to fend off other boats. I also saw some black rubber marks on the hull. I asked the taxi guy if it had been windy. "It blew like hell Sunday afternoon," he replied showing little enthusiasm for conversation. I paid him the €25 and some loose change for a tip and then climbed aboard.

Standing in the cockpit I nearly laughed when I saw that the boat anchored about 50 m behind me belonged to the bald guy who had almost screamed his tongue from his mouth while flailing his arms like a lunatic thinking I was going to anchor in front of him. During the next days I saw only a young couple on the boat continuously "smooching" in  the cockpit and in the water. 

Later, I dinghied over to a nearby Dutch boat, and the friendly couple aboard described what had happened. On Sunday, before the wind piped up, a Spanish boat dropped about 15 m of chain (in 8 m of water!!) and the crew immediately went ashore for lunch. When the wind came, the Spanish boat began merrily dragging through the anchorage pulling up anchors in its path. In no time a bunch of boats, including Jakatar, were doing the bump dance.

Cruisers came to the rescue, as always, and a big black police RIB showed up to muscle boats apart. I forgot to ask my neighbors what had become of the Spanish boat dangling on 15 m of chain. 

I spent a few days enjoying calm sunny days in Culatra in my own company, which hasn't disappointed me so far...except for the odd time.

The Faro Ria. Mainland on the right, the island on the left (not visible).

Looking at the island side. I'm relatively close to shore because I only had 35 m of chain and thus prudently anchored in shallow water. Happy to report that my chain ordering fiasco got solved and I now have 85 meters of 10 mm chain, 15 meters of 8 mm chain, plus about 200 meters of one-inch nylon rode and 3 anchors: a 25 kg Kobra, a 22 kg plow and and a FX-11 Fortress.

My favorite café in Culatra.

There's no traffic on Culatra, except for tractors to transport merchandise from the ferry.

This trawler is sitting on the sand dunes way above any high tide. How it got here is a mystery. Somebody was living in it at the time.

The water salesman in Culatra. Since I didn't need any, I don't know how much it costs. 

This is catamaran ranch at low tide. Some boats have been here for over twenty years and most of them are used as holiday homes by "sailors" from a number of countries. Early this year the town council issued a law to restore the lagoon to an nature reserve and gave boat owners 30 days to remove their vessels after notification or face destruction and removal at their expense. Since about half the boats are still there, it seems that notifying boat owners who live abroad is no easy matter.

Don't miss the next episode about my hilarious fishing exploits while sailing from Culatra to Alvor. 

Sines to Alvor and Culatra

Anyway, I left Sines as darkness turned to dawn and then sailed most of the way to Alvor, for a total of 15 hours. Sailing past Sagres in late afternoon the wind was a notch worse than hellish. At one point my 11-ton dirty-bottom boat was doing 5.2 kt flying only the small staysail.

During the 3 nights I spent in Alvor I noticed three things: the place has slowly been filling up with private mooring balls, there's less cruising boats anchored (which could be related to the fact that many boats run aground if they follow the two channel buoys - that's what you're supposed to do, right, and yet there's a sand bar between them that's doable only near high tide, so you have to steer an arch from one buoy to the other) and the town is becoming insanely crowded at night with tourists.

Notice the depth between the green and red buoys - talk about a grounding trap. You can't trust buoys anymore. This is the latest and updated Navionics chart. Any older version of any chart will show a nice clear channel.

Jakatar is in the very middle and the only boat that is anchored. Even the big catamarans to the left have been on moorings for years. There were about 10 sailboats anchored in the wider part of the channel to the left.

It's still early and the streets are only about half-full at this time.

Next, I sailed to Culatra  ever so slowly. In two tacks I reached Albufeira where I anchored outside the marina breakwater for a rolly night. The next morning I motored into the marina and got 150 euros worth of diesel, 6 euros of gasoline and lots of free water.

Albufeira - a sort of British colony in the Algarve

I then sailed slowly to Culatra. About 4 miles from the entrance the wind fizzed out and I was forced to start the engine. In the anchorage, while getting the anchor ready a guy on a Belgium flag boat started acting like a lunatic screaming that I was too close. I made signs that I was just getting things set up. He kept shouting so I ignored him, after which he ran up to the bow of his boat and nearly had a fit...he was thrashing his arms so wildly I was worried one of them might fly off his shoulder.

Did he think I was so stupid as to anchor right in front of him? Feeling a bit ticked off about it, I took my time about getting the anchor ready as his screaming got louder and louder: I untied the two lines securing the anchor, released the anchor clutch, carefully eased the anchor off the roller until it was dangling close to the water, fished out the anchor ball, the anchor snubber, and a line I tie to the chain in case the snubber fails. By then I was about 15 m away from his boat. 

When I stood erect, looked around and made my way back to the cockpit, he fell into silence and disappeared into his boat, realizing I had no intention of anchoring there. I had already picked a nice open spot farther ahead. 

In the end he got the last laugh, as you will find out in my next post. Not only that, much later, back in Alvor, I was placed in the same position as the screamer during the most pathetic anchoring attempt I have ever witnessed. 

All for the Sake of Grilled Squid

Cascais to Sines

At 8:00 a.m. - after a good night's sleep in the bay of Cascais - I raised anchor, motored out, raised all sail, shut down the engine and sailed south.

Sort of. I always get fooled by the false morning breeze near most harbors. After a coupe of hours of motor-sailing and slow sailing, I finally got a good northwest breeze and sailed all the way to Sines. 

David, although he got up later, had already motored by me in his Bavaria 32. David doesn't really sail his boat. He motors in all conditions: a) if there's not much wind, he needs to motor, obviously; b) if the wind is right, he unfurls the genoa but continues to motor to go faster; c) if the wind is too strong, he furls in the genoa and motors to keep it comfortable. Also, his puny in-mast furling main sail is useless, and I don't think he's used it in years.

[I lied twice in the last paragraph. On looking for a picture of his boat (I didn't take one during the trip), I found a picture from last year showing him using the main sail in a regatta and, of course, nort running the engine.]

The trip of about 55 nautical miles

I arrived in Sines at about 7 pm and anchored. The government-run marina only costs about 18 euros per night but I couldn't be bothered with the docking lines, fenders and checking in. I took a sponge bath, met David in town and went for dinner in the old part of town where I had a delicious dish of grilled squid.

Jakatar in the center, taken on the way to dinner.

Wing-on-Wing

Sailing wing-on-wing without a pole.

The boat is anchored in Culatra and I'm back home temporarily taking care of some business.

At high tide, Jakatar is swinging on 4:1 scope. My main fear is that a clueless marina skipper - and there's no shortage of them - will anchor too close and pull up my anchor in the process. 

Part 1 - Peniche to Cascais (44 miles)

I left Peniche solo on July 26 at 10:30 in the company of a a Bavaria 32 sailed by my friend David, also solo. I left the marina with one concern gnawing at me: my new 25 kg Kobra anchor was/is attached to two pieces of spliced chain totaling 35 m, which is not the ideal situation.* Not forgetting last year's anchor disaster, I do have a spare 45-pound plow anchor on 15 m of 8 mm chain and 40 m of line stowed in the sail locker ready for deployment.

The trip was a mix bag of sailing, motor-sailing and motoring. At the dreaded Cabo Raso (which should be renamed Cape Fear), the wind was only about 25 kt but we hit a wall of fog. Wind and fog don't usually mix, but Cabo Raso is a devilish place where anything can and will happen.

I was quite amused to see a large ketch that had been shadowing me farther offshore disappear into the fog. In a matter of minutes, I saw it motoring back at full steam, after which it spun around facing the enemy, like a bullfighting horse turning on its hind legs to face the bull from a safe distance. I don't blame them. They were obviously going farther south and about to enter a busy shipping lane.

Sailing past Cabo da Roca. The infamous Cabo Raso is just down the street. You want to start thinking about reefing here, and I had already dropped the main. Although Cabo da Roca may not look like much from a distance, notice that that it reaches the clouds...or, should I say, creates its own cloud system.

An hour later I was anchored in the sunny bay of Cascais sipping a small glass of wine. That's my ritual while waiting for the anchor to dig in.

We went ashore for dinner at a local restaurant that is getting more touristy and expensive as the years go by. The sardines were dry and the owner, on recognizing us, insisted on telling us his life story, which you probably don't want to know.

I'll tell you anyway. He claims to have been a barefoot, poverty-stricken kid who left home at 14 years of age, went hungry, worked hard and now works even harder. "Slept only 3 hours last night," he boasted. I think he was merely distracting us in the hope that we wouldn't notice that the sardines were like old leather shoes. Next time maybe I'll eat on the boat and spend the money on drinks at a sleazy bar. I've heard that bored middle-aged women are attracted to the smell of seamen.

Speaking of marina skippers and anchoring, going back to the boats we found that David's boat had dragged onto a fisherman's mooring buoy which had a filthy shuttle boat on it. The mother boat must have gone out for the night. The lines were fouled on the Bavaria's rudder and we had to do some cutting and retying, not before David cut the wrong line holding the dinghy connected to the buoy. Sitting on the oily dinghy, I caught it just in time and found myself holding the line that kept the dinghy and David's boat from floating away. Grunting and groaning, I finally managed to tie the nylon line to an oar lock.

Slept like a rock (or is is it "slept like a log"). I always sleep well, but it feels better on an anchored boat that's going somewhere.

* Wrong chain

Take note owners of a SL 555  Sea Tiger windlass looking to buy European chain.

If your windlass has a gypsy with 7 pockets = RCB70 – only 10 mm DIN 766 chain will fit (which means that the chain links are exactly 48 mm in total length.

After losing all my chain last year, I ordered a 15-m test piece which I would use for the spare anchor. It was a perfect fit. The problem was that they gave me the  wrong reference number. I used that reference number to buy 60 m of chain and, because of the wrong original reference number, I got the wrong chain.

The shop didn't want to take responsibility until I showed them two bills of sale for chain with the same reference number but different sizes. Seeing as they couldn't get the right size chain quickly, they lent me a 20 m piece they had at the shop, which I joined to the original 15 m test piece. It does the trick for now if I anchor in shallow water.

Installing a Solar Panel

"I am plagued by the simplistic ideals in a world where simplicity is mistaken for lack of ambition" ~ Martello Mateus 

Installing a solar panel is a piece a cake...at least that's what it said in the installation manual. And it would be true, if I weren't installing it on a boat!

It took only about one hour to install the 80 W Bosch solar panel on its pole mount. That part was easy. I basically used the old wind generator pole with a modified mounting frame made at a local metalworking shop.

Not the best summer day, but good for testing the solar panel output.

Then came the wiring. The solar cables are thicker than the ones I used for the wind generator, so I had to find another hole to feed them into the boat. After much head scratching, I finally removed an old tiller pilot power socket (previously used for my ruined windvane) and fed the wires through that.

Attaching the charge controller to the bulkhead in the dungeon was also easy - 4 small screws and that's it. Next, you'd think that it would be a simple job of using the old wind generator wires to the battery. But for one reason or another, nothing is easy on on a boat.

Although the wind generator wires ran right over the house battery, I needed an extra 1.5 meters to lead them down to the battery terminals.

The problem was that they snaked through mysterious places - bunched up with lots of other wires - all the way to the engine room where they were hooked up to the wind generator controller and then to the alternator splitting system.

Tracing those two wires and pulling them out from the spaghetti mess in impossible to reach places was a good yoga workout.

The old wind generator wires ran all the way to the engine room seen on the far right. I needed to pull them out in order to run a direct route to the house batteries shown on the bottom left.

After copious cursing, sweating and ranting to myself, I sort of got it done...for now.

I finally got the wires hooked up and, even on a cloudy day, it didn't take long for the 180-amp house battery to hit 14.7 volts. Yes sir, it was worth the money and sweat. It felt good reading the voltmeter, real good I tell you.

PS. If I were smart (IF!!!), I would have used the old wires to charge the engine battery and installed new wires to the house battery. Now I have to run a new set of wires to the engine battery along the same path as the wires I removed. Did I ever feel stupid when I realized this. But then again, if I were smart, I'd be living the life I dream about.

That's enough for today. In my next post you'll be hearing about the biggest F#$%&! screw-up the F%&/#$ marine shop made that's making my balls hiss. Incompetent pukes!!!!! Almost as stupid as me.

The good news is that July 26 remains the planned date of departure to the Algarve.

Kobra Anchor

You lose plenty during your lifetime; it can be frustrating and sad but you shouldn't dwell on it for too long. When you lose your life, you won't even give it a second thought. ~ Martello Mateus

My new mistress...the others are history.

Over the years I've had enough anchors to become a semi-qualified expert on the matter, at least on how to lose them.

I lost my first anchor - a genuine and brand new 45lb CQR the first time I took Jakatar for a sail on Lake Erie, Canada. An anchor-roller pin was supposed to hold it in place, but it didn't...and, no, it wasn't attached to any chain or rode. I was really clueless back then.

Years later, I lost an almost brand new 35lb CQR at the marina in Peniche. I had two anchors on the roller, the 35lb CQR and a knock-off 45lb CQR. I assume a transient sailor decided that two anchors was one too many and pinched the genuine one. Either that or it worked itself free and swam back to Canada.

Last year, I lost a nearly new Rocna 25 plus 150 feet of excellent chain in the bay of Sesimbra on my way to the Algarve. It's a long, long expensive story.

Last year I also cracked the hinge on a 55lb Chinese no-name anchor when it got stuck in a rock. The damn thing was useless anyway, total crap, good for scraping the ocean bottom. It's in my garden now as a decorative piece.

So now I bought a new 25 kg Kobra II and 60 meters of calibrated 10 mm chain, plus 50 m of 10 mm line for my third reefing lines. All for a cool 1,003 euros.

Painting the chain depth markers in funky colors.

Kobra vs. Rocna - I chose the Kobra for a number of reasons:

1. It's half the price
2. According to tests, it has almost the same holding power and sets quickly
3. In thick mud it doesn't bring up a ton of black goo like the Rocna. Tests reveal that the Rocna may not reset quickly because of all this mud sticking to it, while the Kobra will. Since I leave the boat anchored in the muddy bottom of Culatra, this may be a big advantage.

Anyway, if I lose this anchor and chain, I'm going to sell the boat and buy a horse that knows how to swim.

I also picked up my solar panel mounting pole from the metal shop. I adapted the Rutland wind generator pole, and it looks pretty good, I think. The job cost 60 euros. Not bad.

Now I have to find the time to get all this metal aboard, scrape the propeller, put in the 3rd reefing lines, wash the boat, buy some groceries and untie the lines on July 26. I'm motivated.

Pussy Sailors

Yesterday, in a very popular sailing blog I read that sailors who lead all their lines into the cockpit are mostly pussy sailors who don't venture more than 5 miles from the marina. The "expert" blog also listed all the merits of keeping the halyards and reefing lines at the mast. It sounded good in theory, and maybe it really is good, but I like my system better, only from experience you understand.

Except for the topping lift, I lead all my 17 lines into the cockpit:

• 3 halyards
• 4 reefing lines
• 4 sheets
• 2 preventers
• 2 running backstays
• 1 boomvang line
• 1 mainsail downhall

That must make me the biggest sailing pussy ever!

Sailing upwind during a regatta.

I'm no sailing hero. And to be honest, I didn't even learn much when I crossed the Atlantic from New York to Portugal, which included a rough 3-day storm (9 m waves). On the other hand, I have learned a few things on my annual sailing cruise from Peniche to the Algarve (12 times/years), either solo or with relatively inexperienced crew.

It's not the notorious Portuguese northerlies, the fog or the fish-net buoys that make sailing this coast challenging - no, it's the damned capes. In summer the wind near the capes can pipe up from 5 kt to 40+ kt winds while you're having a pee in the head. 

But after a few trips, hopefully you learn exactly when, where and at what time to reef and prepare for the fury. I say "time" because a cape can be sleepy calm in the morning and furiously wild in the afternoon on the same day.

The problem is when you're expecting bad and, instead, get a taste of hell.

Almost every year I sail solo from Alvor to Sagres in late August. It's only a 20 mile trip, and by the time I have breakfast, go ashore and get ready, it's nearly lunch. Normally there's no morning wind in these parts, so it makes no sense to leave early anyway.

So you leave with a nice north-northwest breeze all sails up, go past Lagos between Ponta da Piedade and the fish farm sipping on a cup of coffee and enjoying the view. Later, as the air over land starts to warm up and rise, the cooler ocean air rushes in to fill the gap, picks up speed and blows a stiff breeze down the cliffs on the southern side. The wind increases progressively and you start feeling uneasy as the boat shoots forward under sails drawn hard and tight.

That's when I go through the paces of putting in the first reef in the main and then roll in a third of the big genoa. As I sail toward Sagres, it gets even hotter and and more windy. Soon I've put in the second reef and also furled the genoa to half its size.

Sooner than expected, and without warning, the shotgun blast comes thundering down the cliffs making the water boil. The mast creaks tight, the boat heels sharply, and my ears are full of wind as the boat picks up even more speed. I'm sailing a Corbin 39 and it's built for the fight.

When the hydraulic autopilot starts struggling against the weather helm, I ease out the main and then slowly roll in the genoa all the way while slacking the sheet. The hank-on staysail always stays up no matter what.

I pull in the main a touch to keep if off the spreaders. I've still got weather helm, but it's manageable. Then I cross an invisible line into hell and the blast rips the hat off my head, the boat lunges over and, shit, you know its going to get worse. I ease out the mainsail, this time to the spreaders, and manage to roll in the genoa all the way. My ears are full of howling wind and I'm gritting my teeth and curse for never having installed the third reef line...and I probably never will.

In the distance I see a sailboat motoring toward me with no sail up and heeling, and I also see the surface froth over the dark ripples. The Rutland wind generator is whining insanely like a low pitch siren, then breaks into a loud free-spin swisssssh when the thermal cutout is triggered, only to repeat the whining-swisssssh cycle over and over. When the wind generator does that you know you're in over 40 knots.

My mouth is dry and I have to act fast. I tap on the autopilot "+10 button" 3 times, the boat slowly turns toward land, stabilizes, and I tap the "+10 button" once more. I release the mainsheet and the main sail almost goes limp, the boat straightens to nearly normal and my mouth is getting drier than dust.

I release the main halyard clutch, pull on the downhall line until the sail is nestled in the lazyjacks, not too neatly but good enough, and I cleat it off. Now I press the autopilot "-10 button" 4 times and continue sailing toward Sagres with my staysail and hardly heeling.

I relax in the spaghetti-filled cockpit which I haven't stepped out of and cross paths with the sailboat that is motoring. I can't help notice that they have winches on the mast and no sail up at all - pussy sailors!