“Write that article and I’ll make you banana bread.” That’s what life comes to after six months on a yacht with your darling wife (and blog editor). Jobs begin to get traded against rewards, or quietly become blue or pink jobs, resigned to being done by just one of us.

 The promised bribe.        

And there’s plenty to do, more than you’d think - from engine checks, cleaning bilges, and the endless list of things to service, check and fix. It’s like all the household chores compressed into a tiny space that’s often rolling about just to make it more interesting. Somehow, you do get used to it, and after six months as liveaboards we’re settling into the rhythm of this new life.

In a world of saltwater, UV, wind and vibration, everything is slowly trying to corrode, crack or shake itself loose. 

Our next big passage was four days and three nights from the Côte d’Azur to Valencia in Spain. We needed to get there for an engineer to replace our batteries. You might think that’s a job you could tackle yourself, but it’s a miserable one. There are twelve batteries on the boat that power all the systems, plus a single starter battery for the engine. The idea is that if all your “house batteries” fail, at least you can still start the engine.

Each battery weighs 28 kg - heavier than the heaviest bag you’re typically allowed on a flight. They live in a box deep in the bowels of the boat, and extracting them is like playing Twister. Remember that game? One leg stretched across the saloon, another tucked under you, arms outstretched, back rounded - all to find the right angle to heave 28 kg out of a box. Then you still have to manhandle each one off the boat, across a very narrow plank or passerelle, and onto the dock. All of this in blistering 30-degree heat. It’s not quite swapping batteries either, new ones need programming into the boat’s power management system. So this isn’t blue or pink - it’s just the sort of job where you call in the experts.

Crossing the Gulf of Lion

Winds in the Gulf de Lion. Image courtesy of EUMETSAT.

Our trip meant crossing the Gulf of Lion, better known as the Gulf of Lions by sailors, as it has a fierce reputation for strong winds and confused seas. You need to time your passage well and trust in the forecast. The Mistral wind funnels down the Rhône valley while the Tramontane wind blows through the Pyrenees, and together they can make life ugly out there. These winds spread across the Med, as far as Sardinia to the east and the Balearics to the west, so timing matters.

The niggling thought of meeting the engineer’s deadline in Valencia sat heavily on my mind. Many great disasters happen at sea trying to meet a deadline. You become blind to common sense, convincing yourself a dodgy forecast will be fine - or that the Gulf’s reputation is overblown. Our forecast looked… acceptable. Strong winds before our departure and super-strong winds four days later. Leaving later wasn’t an option.

An early departure from Port de la Rague, Bay of Cannes.

Before setting off there’s always the matter of getting the boat and ourselves ready for sea - tying down potential missiles, checking the rigging and stowing away anything that might break loose once the boat starts moving. Also, we made sure our onshore contacts were informed of our sail plan. Annie and Tim were both updated - a small but essential part of our safety routine. Rachael cooked hearty meals in advance in case the sea state made cooking underway difficult. With everything secured and ready, with cheerful spirits we set off.

Fresh bread for the journey. Lydia, Rachael's sourdough starter, is slowly adjusting to the ever-changing flours our nomadic life throws her way.

For the duration of the passage, each of us updated the logbook while on watch, typically every few hours. A logbook might seem like just scribbles, but each entry serves multiple important purposes. It records the boat’s compass heading, distance to go, wind conditions, position, speed and observations, helping us navigate accurately and plan each stage of the journey. Observations on wind, sea conditions, and any unusual events provide a snapshot of the environment, useful both for safety and for learning from each passage. It also acts as an official record should anything go wrong, offering evidence of what happened and when.

A sample of day two and three of our passage.

The first thing that struck us was how little sea traffic was around. "What do they know that we don’t," was the obvious worry, but we were committed now and ploughed on. The wind was building nicely and was even in the right direction for a comfortable journey. Crossing the dreaded bay turned out to be very enjoyable and we were left wondering what all the fuss was about. The ride was lively sure, but manageable. We set a rule to stay in the cockpit, not venturing outside unless absolutely necessary. In one particularly strong gust I saw our ensign (English flag on the back to non sailors) had come undone and was getting all tangled up. The Englishman in me worried about defacing the nations flag and how upset the King might be, but there was no leaving the cockpit, not now, not in this strong wind, and not in the Gulf of Lions! 

The calm before the storm.

By the second day we’d crossed the bay with no major panic. Time to relax we thought, worst bit is over, we’ll soon be in Valencia. Well, having focuses so much on the potential dangers of the gulf itself, we’d not given enough consideration to the rest of the passage. Firstly there was still a long way to go after crossing the gulf, and secondly thunderstorms were newly forecast, lots of them. Being in a yacht - with a big metal pole for a mast sticking up in the sky, with nothing else around you, is not a comforting place to be in a thunderstorm. 

Storm clouds approaching.

What happens if the boat get’s strick by lightening? Well it does happen and you can say goodbye to all your electrics including your navigation systems on board . On seeking advice from other sailors on how to protect yourself, the best answer we got was  “Pray!”.  On cue, a black cloud appeared ahead. “Let’s sail round it,” I suggested. Trouble was, upwind there were shallows, and downwind it might overtake us. Another choice - strangely not suggested - was to slow down and let it pass. But no, ever the optimists, we tried to outrun it downwind. That probably wasn’t the  smartest of decisions nor was having so much sail up in our attempt to outpace it. Our lack of experience with squalls didn’t help either . We realised too late that we were going to get caught. When it hit us the wind jumped from a gentle breeze to 45kts in seconds, literally seconds. 45knots is a strong gale or Force 9 on the Beaufort Scale. Having full sail up in a Force 9 is not good and we found out why. 

The boat heeled over dramatically, even the tied down stuff in the boat found a way of breaking loose. There was a lot of crashing of objects and the scream of the wind howling through the rigging. Get the sails down now, quick, before they rip, is the first priority (having checked we’re both still on the boat at a crazy angle) , thank God for our “don’t leave the cockpit” rule. Getting an overloaded sail in is challenge, clearly something that should have been done before the squall hit. Things went into slow motion and we worked brilliantly as a team with no time for panic and got the sails under control.

Control regained.

Then came torrential rain, boiling the sea around us and soaking us through. No sooner had things stabilised, we had passed through the squall and calm returned, the whole episode only lasting a few minutes.

A biblical downpour.

We looked at each other stunned, did that really just happen? We both felt in awe of the vast power of nature, and feeling it switch on and off like that is an experience we won’t forget for a long time, and etched our brains with lessons to be learnt.

Rachael consulted her live lightening app. I’m not sure really if it helps to look at such things, as dauntingly, it showed we were smack in the middle of a sizeble lighting field with little we could do about it other than pray.

Pérdika’s location and live lightening map. White stars indicate new strikes, orange and red, older strikes.

We did put our phones and VHF radio in the oven, which being a metal box acted as a Faraday cage and would supposedly protect them from lighting. I hoped we weren’t going to test the theory out. 

As night fell, lightning flashed all around us - a spectacular, if uneasy display. None hit us, mercifully. So the Gulf of Lions did have a roar afterall and its own way of telling us not to be complacent.

Valencia

Our stop in Valencia was short but busy, with the battery changeover and the resetting of the boat’s power management system. Huge thanks to Francisco and his wife, Amparo, who worked tirelessly on the installation and are still supporting us remotely - all via Google Translate, as their English is about on par with my Spanish. Between the four of us and our Spanish speaking friend Rupert in the UK, we got there.

We didn’t see Valencia at its best as we were close to the commercial port, which isn’t the prettiest side of Valencia. But we enjoyed some small outings on our scooters.

The lovely Francisco and Amparo - batteries all replaced and systems reset. And did you know paella was invented in Valencia?

We did, however, have the most important day of the year, at least in Rachael’s mind, her birthday! That was a great opportunity to get off the boat, hire a car, and head for the mountains. What a joy it was to be in a beautiful hotel, in a room where the floor doesn’t constantly move beneath your feet. We lapped up the luxury of shore life. 

A relaxing birthday visit to the mountains of Valencia.

Next stop’s Gibraltar, where our good friend and fellow sailor Simon will join us to help us sail over to Morocco and down to the Canaries - a sort of warm up act for all of us before the Atlantic crossing.

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