The Anchoring Song

(We have been away for five days staying with very dear sailing friends in France, enjoying sunshine, fresh fish, cheese and wine!)

19 July 2002

Sailing south we arrived at the town of Calvi on the north of the isle of Corsica. Corsica was the birth place of Napoleon Bonaparte and since the island was in French hands at the time of his birth, Napoleon was a French national. Corsica is politically French, called a territorial collectivity of France, but the island has historically had close ties with Italy. The islanders maintain a fierce sense of independence and have their own flag; a dinky little white pennant with a roguish looking moor wearing a knotted headscarf tied round his head, a big gold earring and the words ‘Ile de Beaute’. We bought one and hung it below our French courtesy flag.

At the Calvi anchorage we were charmed to meet Liza and Andy Copeland on their yacht Bagheera , co-authors of numerous sailing books, notably one in our own library called ‘Cruising for Cowards’. They came for drinks on Forever, and Andy patiently tried to demystify boat electrics and refrigeration for us. He gave us a couple of very useful leaflets which I spent hours studying, though I confess not much of it made sense to me then.

We sailed on down the west coast of Corsica in short hops stopping in various anchorages. Mike’s and my first attempts at anchoring had been pathetic but with all this practice we were getting somewhat better. However, conditions were always so variable that our success rate ranged from easy, quick and smooth to difficult, lengthy and embarrassing.

The theory of anchoring is this: you turn the boat up into wind and disengage the motor which brings the boat to a standstill, then you drop the anchor and reverse slowly backwards, paying out chain as you go. The wind also pushes the boat backwards. If you’re really clever and the wind is suitable, you can do all this without the engine, de-powering your sail at the last moment. Mike and I hadn’t yet tried it without engine, but we talked about it and were determined to pluck up the necessary courage one day, but only if there are no other boats around to witness our attempt.

After one particularly appalling effort in the anchorage of Anse de Tuara we were barely speaking by the time a neighbour rowed over and invited us for a drink on his boat. Deciding this was preferable to bearing each other’s company we went and they proved to be good fun. We all managed to have a laugh about the ‘anchoring dance’ as our host called it, comical of course only to the spectators. The same goes for the ‘anchoring song’, which goes something like this:

Him: Ok, dear. I’m going to go between this green boat
to starboard and the large white catamaran to port.
Her: Fine.
Him: Alright, you can put the anchor down now.
Her: What?
Him: I said, put the anchor down.
Her: I thought you said the green boat? This is blue.
Him: Never mind. Just put it down.
Her: Ok, Here goes. There you are. Slow down Jack,
we’re going to hit this boat in front!
(A lot of frantic reversing)
Him: For Christ’s sake, woman! You left it too late. Pull
the chain up again. I’ll have to go round again.
(Wife lifts the chain back up)
Ok, once again, when we get between the blue boat to starboard
and the catamaran, please put the bloody thing down straight
away. Got it?
Her: Yes darling. Got it. But don’t go so fast.
Him: What?
Her: You’re going too fast, Jack.
Him: Rubbish. Just do as you’re told. Put it down, NOW.
Her: Ok, hold on. Oh dear, hang on, the chain’s stuck. Ooof.
Right. There she goes.
Him: Jesus wept. You’re too bloody slow.
(Much frantic reversing again)
Now pull it up again.
(Wife lifts the chain again)
Him: Right, let’s try it again. I’m going to stop just behind
the blue boat. Let her go when I say. Okay, put her
down.
(Wife drops the anchor chain)
Him: Well? Did you let it go?
Her: Yes.
(He starts reversing and keeps on reversing until he
realizes the anchor is dragging)
Her: We’re dragging, darling.
Him: Oh, for God’s sake. You put too much chain down all
at one go. You’re supposed to let it out slowly, woman.
All right, I’m going forward again, pull it up.
Her: No.
Him: What?
Her: I said No. You want it lifted up, you come and do it.
Him: Fine. I’ll do it. (Muttering) Want anything done properly
you have to do it yourself. Here, you come and steer
the boat, and make sure you stop right there behind
this white yacht and keep well to port of that fishing
boat. Think you can manage that?
Her: Yes dear, and a darn sight better than you can.

And so it goes on, and on, until they get it in, by which time they are both snarling blue murder.

We continued down the west coast and stopped for fuel and provisions in the lovely old town of Ajaccio, Napoleon’s birth place. It was all good cruising until we reached Bonifacio in the south where we were turned away by the port authorities on the grounds that the harbour was too full, although we could see plenty of empty berths. We tried to anchor but the only available holding was awful, so we gave up and sailed south to the island of Sardinia.

Sardinia is a part of Italy and is called the Sardinia Region. Our gentle sail through the north of the island was made quite hazardous by numerous huge, fast motor boats – there seemed to be hardly any sailing boats – all trying to run you over or give you a good wobble with their wake. Italians are SO macho.

I was dying to try out our new electronic chart software. With our small battery bank (2 x 100 amps), only one solar panel and a skipper who hated to motor, power was an endless problem. Mike is what you might call ‘an old salty dog’ type sailor and tended to leave all the new fangled stuff like GPS, 12 volt power systems, the computer, email, mobile phones and now this clever software, to me. I was delighted to have the electronic stuff as I couldn’t navigate my way out of a paper bag without the GPS, but without adequate power I might as well have thrown the whole lot in the ocean. However, finances were always exceedingly tight and there was no such thing as a cheap marina in Sardinia so after a couple of days anchoring we left to cross the Tyrrhenian Sea to Fiumicino, which is the nearest harbour to Rome.

The trip across was a bit variable, but OK. As seems to be always the case in a long trip, the wind dies just in the last hour or so before you get in. There I am, dreaming of a good wash and a sit down with a glass of wine and a tasty little snack within the hour. Then the wind dies off and the boat slows down - to three knots, then two, then one, and finally when the GPS refuses to register any forward motion at all, and my sighs have progressed through pleas to snarls, I finally have a hissy fit and threaten to decamp on arrival before my captain will put on the engine. He can be heroically determined!