This is the true story of what happened after we sailed away.

Getting away was the dream.
Getting back was something else entirely.

👉 Continue reading below

Friday 23rd May 2003, 10:00 pm, San Antoni de Portmany, Ibiza

Something wasn’t right.
Ann says, “There’s an odd noise coming from the chain locker, Mike. It’s a sort of rattling noise.”
I can hear it too. I don’t think much of it at first.
Mike comes up from the aft cabin, climbing the companionway steps. I follow him.
Wolfgang and his brother Andreas had gone ashore earlier for a beer. Mario and Rachel are still anchored about thirty metres away. Everything feels normal.
But it isn’t.
The lights of San Antoni seem to swirl and swirl.
Then I realise, it’s not the lights moving.
It’s Spray.
She’s turning in tight circles, faster than she ever should at anchor.
Mike sits on the port coaming, staring towards the town, scratching his head.
“What on earth is going on?” he says.
The beach is only a hundred metres away. People are still walking along it.
Then something strange happens.
The water begins to disappear.
Not slowly. Fast.
The sea pulls back from the beach as if something far below has opened and is draining it away. Ten metres of sand appear. Then more.
People are standing where the sea used to be.
Mike points. “Look over there, Mitzie, those people are walking in the sea. Well, where it was.”
The boat is still circling.
I don’t like it.
There’s a sound, louder now.
A heavy clonk.
The chain goes tight.

What started as freedom turned into something far more complicated.
This is the part of the story nobody sees coming.

If you’d prefer to read the full story, you can pre-order the book here:

👉 Pre-order Getting Back

Mike moves fast, dropping into the cockpit and starting the engine.
Spray begins to drift, no, not drift, move, properly move, towards the harbour entrance. Too fast.
“There’s no wind,” Ann says, coming up from below. “What on earth is going on? I was on the toilet.”
“I have no idea,” Mike says. “The anchor’s dragging. Thirty metres of chain in three metres of water, it just doesn’t make sense.”
No wind. No tide. No current.
But we are moving.
Mike engages forward gear, just in time to avoid a fishing boat on its mooring.
“Ann, up here, now, quick.”
She’s already there, switching on the navigation lights, turning the anchor light off.
Mike is sweating now.
The boat doesn’t feel steady anymore. It feels pushed.
I glance towards the road that runs around the bay. The sea is coming back.
Not gently.
It washes over the seawall, across the promenade, spilling into the road. Everything is moving; all sorts of stuff are floating in the water and rushing along the promenade.
Pot plants, small trees still in their bigger pots, deck chairs, sun loungers, and various boxes, all taking a ride on the river that has formed along the promenade.
People have gone.
The bay is chaos.
Boats everywhere. No order. No direction.
Some have lights. Most don’t.
Without them, they’re just shapes—dark, shifting shapes—moving in ways that don’t make sense.
Mike is fighting it.
The engine is pushing hard, but Spray barely moves. He has revs for nearly seven knots. We’re barely making one and a half over the ground.
The water surges out.
Then it surges back in again.
Over and over.
Nothing behaves the way it should.
This isn’t like the other storms.
Those you understand.
This… you don’t.
It goes on like this for what feels like forever.
Eventually, Mike says, “Let’s try to anchor again. OK?”
Ann nods. “If I can’t hold her straight, I’m giving up and motoring.”
They move quickly now. No hesitation.
Mike lines Spray up, brings her to a halt, then runs forward. The chain rattles out fast.
Ann goes astern.
There’s a sudden, solid stop.
The bow dips.
The anchor has caught.
For a moment, everything holds.
Mike watches the shoreline carefully.
Three minutes.
Five.
Still holding.
The engine goes off.
But nothing feels settled.
Mike scans the bay with the binoculars. “I’m starting to wonder about Wolfgang. I can’t see his dinghy anywhere.”
It should be there.
It isn’t.
That matters.
It’s midnight now.
The sea is still moving in and out, but weaker. It no longer reaches the road. It just hits the wall and falls back again.
I stay on watch with Mike.
There’s no point sleeping.
Whatever this is, it might come back.
Monty disagrees.
He curls up, closes his eyes, and is asleep almost instantly. “Oh well, if it never rains, but it pours. Don’t worry, Ann. We are in a good place. The shelter is good. The breakwater will protect us from any waves”.
“Wolfgang said to come to the yacht club for a drink he was buying”.
“OK, but we will not be out all night. I’m not doing that again”.
“Of course not, just a drink, then we can come back and go to bed for a good night’s sleep”.

24th May 2003, 2:00 am, San Antoni de Portmany, Ibiza

Mike says, “ I’m knackered”.
He looks around with the binoculars again and says, “That’s it. I am off to bed. I have no idea where Wolfgang and his brother are, but that’s enough for me. I tried, I waited, but I have to get some sleep now”.
I don’t follow. I decide to stay in the cockpit, curl up on the starboard seat, and fall asleep.
Mike comes up into the cockpit at 7:30 am. He takes a look around through the binoculars and then sits down.
Three minutes later, Ann hands him a cup of tea. I keep an eye on the beach. It’s a mess. There’s rubbish everywhere.
It looks like a tornado has swept along it. Hey, wait. Who is that walking down from the road to the sea?
I shout, there he is, there is Wolfgang. Look, Mike, over there.
Mike, what’s the matter, Mitzie?
Look, look over there, look.
Mike picks up the binoculars, which belong to Wolfgang and his brother. “I’d better get into the dinghy and pick them up,” he says.
With that, he climbs out of the cockpit.
I follow.
“Oh, Mitzie? Do you want to come?”
Of course.
“Come on, then get in”.
Mike lifts me down, unties the painter, starts the engine, and we head over towards the beach.
When we arrive, the mess looks even worse. It seems like hundreds of rubbish bins have been tossed into the air, upended, and blown across the lovely beach.
Wolfgang waves at us.
Mike waves back.
Two minutes later, we arrived.
Wolfgang and Andreas jump in.
Mike says, “You missed the excitement last night”.
Wolfgang says, “Yes, we watched it from the shore. It was a tsunami caused by an earthquake near Zemmouri by Algiers. It was a 6.9 quake. It caused massive damage, mainly here in the Balearics”.
“Wow, that makes sense. Where’s your dinghy?”
“I have no idea. When we returned at around 10:15 pm., the beach was awash with water, and the road was half a meter deep in it”.
“What did you do?”
“Well, around 11:30 pm., we realised there was no way we would get back to the boat”. Andreas suggested we swim for it, but after a short discussion, we decided against that. If it all started again, we might get pulled out to sea”.
“So what did you do?” Mike says.
Andreas says, “We went to a bar and, when that closed at 2 am, to a nightclub”.
“I think we are still a little sloshed”, Wolfgang giggles.
“When the club closed at 7:00 am, we walked to the beach. The streets adjacent to the harbour were devastated. Cars were smashed up, big planters were everywhere, and rubbish was strewn around”.
Mike starts the outboard, and we are off, heading towards Wolfgang’s boat. A voice shouts, “Hello in the dinghy, over here, over here!”
We all look around, and then Andreas points to a yacht on one of the harbour moorings. “There, that chap over there is the one shouting”.
Mike steers the dinghy in the direction of the yacht.
He moors up to its bathing platform. The man on board says, “You lost a dinghy?”
“Yes, we were ashore when the tsunami hit, and the dinghy was washed away”.
The man says, “I have it tied to my port side, just a moment”.
He comes back, leading a dinghy along the port side hull and then along the transom, and hands Wolfgang the painter.
“Here you go. I’m glad I could rescue it. It simply drifted past my boat around 10:30 pm. last night. Terrible thing with the tsunami. Are you all OK?”
“Yes, we are now”, Wolfgang says.
Mike says yes, “Our anchor ripped out as the first wave came in. We spent two hours motoring around, then managed to dig the anchor in again. It was a terrible onshore event, with extensive damage. Hopefully, no one was injured or killed”.
“Yes, the local news gave a report. I think one person was killed, but I’m not sure”.
“Thanks for the rescue of the dinghy. Much appreciated”.
“Bye for now”.
Wolfgang holds the painter of his dinghy in his right hand, and Mike starts the outboard and motors off.
The painter line goes taut, and the dinghy is behind us. Following us, we make a sharp turn to port, and Wolfgang’s boat is in front of us.
Mike says, “She just stayed right there all night and didn’t move an inch. I assume the anchor is well dug in. How much chain do you have out?”
“I have 45 meters of chain out; it’s all I have, and it serves no purpose in the chain locker”
Mike says, “I’ll take that as a lesson learned, Wolfgang. Get the chain out, and don’t leave it in the locker. Having it out is better; it makes sense“.
There you are, I say; that answers the question, doesn’t it?
Mike cuts the engine we drift slowly to the yacht. Wolfgang grabs the bathing platform and jumps on, taking both painters with him.
Andreas leaps aboard. “Thanks for the lift, Mike. We appreciate it. We’ll get some sleep and then go to the yacht club for a drink. Come over if you like. I want to buy you a few beers”.
“OK, around 6 pm?”
“Yep, 6 pm it is. See you later, bye Mitzie”.
We head back to Spray. Mike goes straight down to the chart table and looks at the forecast. I presume he missed this ritual earlier.
He says, “Oh dear, it looks like that strong wind warning for tomorrow has now been forecast at gale force winds for the Balearics from 8 am tomorrow, 25th”.
“We will stay right here, I think. It’s not from the South. It’s from the North force 7 to 8, then increasing to gale force 9 later.

24th May 2003, 6:30 pm, San Antoni de Portmany, Ibiza

Mario, Rachel, Wolfgang, Andreas, Werner, Mike, Ann, Monty, and I sit on the Club Nautico terrace overlooking the bay and the small marina. Werner arrived in the anchorage around 5:00 pm. He listened to the forecast and rushed into the bay.
The crews have already had two rounds of drinks. Wolfgang bought the first and Mario the second. Mike is up and says it’s my round. Who wants another drink?”
All hands go up. Even Ann wants another one.
Mike calls the waitress: “Otra ronda de bebidas, por favor”.
She says, “Of course, same again?”
Mike says, “Yes, thank you”.
A few minutes later, the drinks appear. “Here’s to a peaceful night,” Mike says. “It looks like a bit of a storm tomorrow, but there’s good shelter here, so no worries“.
At that moment, Merrick and Lucy walk into the yacht club. They look at our table and smile.
“Hello, all you sailors, how are you all? Survived the Tsunami?”
Mike asks, “Have you been in San Antoni all this time? I thought you were in Denia”.
“Yes, we have been here three days, made the crossing and came straight here”, Merrick says.
Ann says, “Yes, we are all well, I think. Grab some chairs and join us?”
Merrick says, “We will have a drink with you, but we booked a table at 7:30”.
The waitress appears, takes the order and heads to the bar.
Wolfgang tells his tale.
Merrick says, “We were in the marina, moored to a pontoon. A big thump woke me up. I went on deck to investigate and saw the mayhem on the beach and road. The keel of our Halberg Rassey must have touched the bottom as the sea receded”.
“The boat bumped a few times, so the sea must have dropped two or three meters. It was all bizarre. We couldn’t sleep for hours. I think I dozed off around 4 am. Seems to be all over now, though”.
Werner says, “Never even noticed anything in Cala Bassa; I was anchored in eight meters and slept all night”.
Mike says, “You’ve all heard the forecast. There will be some wind tomorrow morning, and it is forecast to be gale-force winds”.
“Oh, yes, seen that forecast; it’ll be fine here, nicely sheltered from the north“ Mario says.
Wolfgang replies, “Yes, I believe that is the consensus here”.
“Ann says, “When we get back to Ruffles Spray, we’ll put out ten more meters of chain”.
Forty-five minutes later, the party breaks up. After a twenty-minute walk, we head back to the dinghy.
“Hey, Monty, there seems to be a bit more chop in the bay. It’s not much, just enough to throw up the occasional Spray over the starboard side of the dinghy”.
Monty says, “Hmm, yes, I believe you are correct“. He glances toward the end of the breakwater. “Look at the end of the breakwater. There’s definitely some white water and plenty of spray being thrown up around the large rocks there”.
I look around, and as he said, it was not as calm as when we arrived at the yacht club.
Spray is lying nicely to the anchor, just some slight movement, but nothing out of the ordinary.
We arrive and are lifted onto the boat.
Then Mike removes the outboard and mounts it on the starboard railings.
Then, he ties the painter to the centre railing stanchion and comes into the cockpit.
“There we are, all ready for the night”, Mike says.
After dinner, the crew sits in the cockpit. Monty lies with Ann, and I am lying on Mike’s starboard seat.
Outside, it is dark, the lights are shining from the shore, and it’s all lovely. This time last night, the tsunami hit. I think everyone is relieved that it’s relatively calm.
There’s still wind; I guess it’s fifteen knots, but I am no good at guessing windspeed.
We all head below for bed.

25 May 2003, 1:30 am, San Antoni de Portmany, Ibiza

Mike is up.
Ruffles Spray is rolling in the swell, and the wind has been howling.
For the last hour, Mike has been tossing and turning.
He gave up around midnight.
Mike is in the cockpit.
I make my way up the steps and jump on the port seat.
Outside, there’s torrential rain.
You can’t see further than the bow of Ruffles Spray, and there are no lights visible ashore. It’s one wall of water, and the spray lands on the doghouse windows like firecrackers going off.
Mike stares out at them intensely, his hands shaking. Around us, I see several ghostly outlines of yachts, all appearing closer than they did in the daylight.
I shout out as the stern of one yacht appears really close to Ruffles Spray. It is heading towards our bow.
Mike looks forward, crying, “Oh no, you bloody well don’t”.
He’s holding out both arms as if pushing the yacht away. Ruffles Spray surges back, tugging at its anchor chain.
The yacht slides past the port side; Mike jumps out of the cockpit. I can see the full force of the wind blowing in his hair. Instantly, he is soaked through.
Standing there in his shorts and t-shirt, he looks like a traffic policeman on holiday, helping out, waving the yacht past our port side. He is shouting some obscene words.
Something about not hitting my boat, you fool. Why are you not up in the cockpit?
He looks back at me, rainwater dripping off his head, instantly blown away by the wind, then blasted by the next gust full of cold rain.
Another scream, Mike says, “Oh no, not again”.
I look in the direction he is pointing. Oh, my giddy aunt, a motorboat drifts downwind towards Ruffles Spray.
It’s a big one.
It looks like a fifteen-meter boat to me.
There’s one person on the stern, looking towards us.
Mike is shouting, “Go forward, move, don’t drag into us, you’re going to rip our anchor out, bugger off”.
That boat must be over our anchor now, fifty meters. I wonder how much chain he has gotten out.
Twenty meters?
Thirty meters?
His anchor will soon catch our chain, and we will start dragging, too.
I look behind Ruffles Spray.
There is about sixty meters of water between us and the shore.
After forty or so meters, it starts to slope up quite quickly.
If that boat pulls out our anchor or gets tied up in our chain, we’ll be in big trouble.
Mike is still screaming at the yacht.
The wind is howling, and the rain is cracking on the perspex of the doghouse.
Ruffles Spray is rolling from port to starboard and back.
Mike starts the engine just as Ann pokes her head up the companionway stairs.
Mike says, “Some idiot is careening over our chain. I’ve got to try and keep out of the way”.
“Well, good luck with that, “ Ann says, returning below.
Just as Ruffles Spray’s bow slews to port, the engine roars as Mike puts it in forward gear.
Ruffles Spray leaps forward.
The motor yacht is fifteen meters to the starboard, and the guy on the stern is waving and shouting.
I think he is saying move away, move.
I shout back, you move, you fool; you will hit us, not us hit you!
At that moment, the sky around us lit up in a flash of lightning.
It’s like when a photographer takes a photo, the flash lights everything up for an instant.
That instant is burnt into my retina, and it lingers there for what seems like ages.
Boats are everywhere, careering around, most with navigation lights on, some without.
The motor yacht looms to starboard. It’s now gliding towards Ruffles Spray’s starboard beam. Then the boats all disappear, just like the switch was flicked, and the light goes out.

What happens next?

The story doesn’t settle down.
If anything, this is where it starts to change.

👉 Getting Away is where it all began — building the boat and leaving the UK behind.

👉 Getting Back is what happened when reality caught up.

👉 Read Book 1 – Getting Away → Get it here

And this still isn’t the end…