A VERY FISHY SITUATION
We departed our secluded little bay in Spain early morning before dawn in order to ‘catch’ the outgoing tide and current. We had a big day ahead of us, with approximately 7hours worth of sailing to get through and as a result, the early start showcased some magical scenery as the sun began to rise and numerous pods of dolphins escorted us for miles as the trekked from the edge of the Europe coastline to the African continent. It wasn’t all sunshine and lollipops as we crossed the strait, ducking and weaving between ocean freighters, cargo ships and ferries – an estimated 40 vessels crossed OUR path so there was much deliberation at the navigation table – manned exceptionally well by Ads – who has now dubbed himself as the TomTom of the Atlantic. The journey was exhilarating as we clocked speeds up to 17 knots and “surfing” 3 metre swells. As we began to approach our first Moroccan port of entry, the girls raced downstairs to change into their prudish boat wear, covering up the knees, chest and shoulders, something less than appreciated after basking in shorts and singlets in 42 degree weather. As we entered the harbour of Larache, there were swarms of locals waving hysterically on the banks – not (as we thought) to welcome us, but to warn us of the treacherous reef we were fast approaching. Before we knew it, the “Civil Guardia” and it’s machine-gunned crew raced for us and directed us into, ahem, ‘safety’. If only there was a word to describe the stench that filled our airways and smacked us in the face like a Mack truck. Kez was at her subtle best as she heaved ferociously in front of the 30-odd locals lined up on the wharf eager to catch a glimpse of the big beauty. The boat, that is. Before long, the El Capitan was escorted off the boat by uniformed officials and whizzed off in what could only be described as a Tijuana Taxi to customs. A fun exercise, we’re told, when an Australian is trying to speak English to French-speaking Moroccans. Eventually, all was cleared and we ventured out into the wreaking township for some dinner. Try gaining an appetite when all you can smell is rotten seafood, infused with human waste. So intense that it would make a street rat’s eyes water. The catch was that there was no shore power at the so called “marina” to run the air conditioning so we had no choice but to open the windows and door for some air. Nice.
theflightclub 