BOOK TWO

Getting Back

San Antoni de Portmonay

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

Ann shouts, “Mike, there’s an odd noise coming from the chain locker. It’s a sort of rattling noise. I can hear it, too, but I didn’t think it was anything to worry about.”

Mike comes out of the aft cabin climbs up the companionway steps.

I follow him up.

Outside is San Antoni de Portmoney Bay, on the north-western side of the island of Ibiza. Ruffles Spray has been anchored here for two days.

We arrived here with Mario, Rachel, Wolfgang, and Werner, who wintered in Almerimar moored opposite Ruffles Spray. Werner has anchored in Cala Basa, a lovely anchorage with a fabulous beach about 3.5 nautical miles west of San Antonio Bay.

Wolfgang’s brother Andreas is visiting him, and they both went ashore around 7 p.m. for a beer and something to eat. Mario and Rachel are anchored thirty meters from Ruffles Spray, and they are going out on the town with Mike and Ann tomorrow night.

There seems to be something going on as the lights of San Antonio are swirling around and around.

It’s not the lights that are swirling around. It’s Ruffles Spray. She is turning rapidly in circles. Mike is sitting on the port, looking at the town.

He is scratching his head deeply. “What on earth is going on?” he says out loud.

The beach is about one hundred meters away. I can see people walking along it. An odd thing is going on, though, as the normal still water, which usually moves in and out by only a few tens of centimetres, is retreating very fast out of the bay.

I can see ten more meters of the beach. The water streams off the beach rapidly, as if a plug has been pulled out in a drain somewhere far out to sea.

A further ten meters of the beach is exposed, and Ruffles Spray is still turning around its anchor chain in circles. 

“I’ve never seen anything like this before, “ Mike says. “Look over there, Mitzie; those people are walking in the sea- well, where the sea used to be on that beach. It’s just strange. “

Suddenly, the noise changes, and there’s a loud, big clonk—it’s the anchor chain going tight.

Mike jumps into the cockpit and starts the engine. I glance to my right, where the main road runs parallel with the bay. 

There are lots of high-rise blocks, some hotels and some apartment buildings, and I can see that Ruffles Spray is moving towards the bay entrance at quite some speed relative to one of the hotels. Mike puts the engine into forward gear, slowing Spray’s speed, just in time as Ruffles Spray is moving towards a fishing boat on its mooring.

“Ann, come up here right now, right now, quick”, he says.

Ann’s head appears from below. “What on earth is going on? I was on the toilet.”

“I have no idea, but the anchor has been pulled out. We had thirty meters of chain out in five meters of water. It just doesn’t make any sense. How on earth can that happen? No wind, no tide, no current. It’s just not possible.”

Mike looks through the front windows and then circles around the cockpit, looking out into the bay.

Yachts are everywhere, with port navigation lights, starboard lights, and white lights; boats surround you no matter where you look.

Ann says, “I’ll turn on the nav lights and switch off the anchor light. “

Mike simply nods. He’s sweating. He turns the wheel to port, then goes astern with the engine. He is shaking his head, swearing under his breath.

I watch as Mario and Rachel’s yacht Duo motors past on the starboard side. Then, the beach comes into view. The sea washes over the sea wall.

The wall is only around a meter high, and beyond it is a promenade. The water is washing over this, swishing along it and into the road.

All the people have disappeared, and all sorts of things are floating in the water rushing along the promenade.

Pot plans, 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.

Ruffles Spray passes Wolfgang’s yacht, still anchored in the same position as before all this started. 

Mike says, “How has that boat stayed at anchor when the rest of the anchorage is motoring around like in a musical chair game?”

I’m still watching the beach. The sea is retreating away from it, and minutes later, it is washing over the road.

Mike is fighting the sea with Ruffles Spray’s engine. His engine revs for 6.8 knots, but Ruffles Spray is only doing 1.5 knots over the ground. Mike is trying to steer Ruffles Spray back to the same position we were anchored in when Ann first reported the noisy anchor chain.

This is proving impossible, as the sea recedes out of the harbour one minute and then washes in at over 5.5 knots.

All around, dozens of yachts- sailing yachts, motor yachts- bumble about, most lacking navigation lights.

The lack of navigation lights is not a problem when they are motoring around in front of the shore lights. But as they motor towards the harbour entrance, they appear as ghostly black shadows, making it very difficult to guess which way they are heading.

With navigation lights, this is easy, as you either see both a green starboard light and a red port light (boat coming towards you), a green starboard light (a boat moving left to the right), a red port light boat moving right to the left), or stern white light (a boat moving away from you).

It’s just a mass of grey boats all over the place.

An hour later, then Mike announces:

“Let’s see if we can anchor and dig it in again.”

“OK, but if I can’t keep the boat in line with the anchor, I am giving up and motoring around again”, Ann says.

“OK, I will line us up, slow to a halt, then rush forward to let the chain down. You then go astern and dig the damn anchor in. Right, let’s do it.”

Mike swings Ruffles Spray around in a wide circle, lining Ruffles Spray up to approach from the beachside facing towards the entrance to the bay.

He quickly slows Ruffles Spray by going astern and then rushes forward to the bow. I can almost immediately hear the chain running out into the water.

A shout and the usual pumping of the arm cause Ann to slowly go astern. Ruffles Spray starts to respond, more anchor chain rumbles out, and all of a sudden, there is a hard tug, and Ruffles Spray is stopped. The engine is still in astern, and there’s that telltale tail dip of the pow, announcing that the anchor is dug in. 

Ann puts the engine into neutral. Mike comes back from the bow and watches ashore to see if we start dragging.

Three minutes later, he is happy. The engine is switched off, and Mike moves back forward and looks towards the shoreline.

Five minutes later, he is back.

“I wonder what has happened to Wolfgang and his brother? They must be ashore, but I could not see his dinghy anywhere earlier. It was pulled up on the beach right over there.” He points to a spot by the beach hit, well, where the beach hut was minutes ago.

Mike says, “Wow, it’s been two hours since that first rattle of the chain. We’ve been motoring around for nearly an hour and a half.” 

He has the binoculars pressed to his eyes, looking around. “Oh, there they are. Mario and Rachels’s boat is moored slightly towards the town. They look dug in. No sign of Woflgangs dinghy. It’s simply not there anymore. I’ll have to keep a lookout for him. Hopefully, he and Andreas are fine and just can’t head back to the boat.”

It’s midnight, and the sea is still going out and coming in, but it’s not rolling up the beach and over the road anymore. 

It’s hitting the short sea wall and then receeding.

I have decided to stay on watch with Mike. If the whole thing starts again, what’s the point of going to sleep?

Monty says, “Good luck with that,” and closes his eyes. The next second, he’s fast asleep.

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

“I’m knackered,”, Mike says. 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 decide to stay in the cockpit, curl up on the starboard side and fall asleep.

Mike comes up into the cockpit at 7:30 am. He takes a look around through the binos 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 walking down 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 binos, “that’s Wolfgang and his brother. I better get into the dinghy and pick them up.”

With that, he climbs out of the cockpit.

I follow.

“Oh, Mitzie, 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. Hundreds of rubbish bins have been tossed into the air, upended, and blown across the lovely beach.

Wolfgang waves at us, and Mike waves back.

Two minutes later, we arrived.

Wolfgang and Peter 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?”

“No idea we came back at around 10:15 pm. The beach was awash with water. In fact, 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 swam 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?”

Andreas says, “We went to a bar, and when that closed at 2:00 a.m., we went to a nightclub.”

“I think we’re still a little sloshed, “ Wolfgang giggles. “The club closed at 7:00 am, and we walked to the beach.” “There’s lots of devastation in the streets adjacent to the harbour. Cars are smashed up, big planter pots are everywhere, and rubbish is strewn around; it’s like, well, devastation,” Andreas says.

Mike starts the outboard, and we head towards Wolfgang’s boat. A voice calls out, “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 onboard says, “You lost a dinghy?”

“Yes, we were ashore when the tsunami hit, and the dinghy was washed away” Wolfgang answers.

The man says, “I have it tied to my port side for just a moment.”

He comes back leading the dinghy along the port side hull, then along the transom and hands Wolfgang the painter.

“Here you go, glad I could rescue ut. It simply drifted past my boat around 10:30 pm last night. The 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 an hour and a half motoring around, then managed to dig the anchor in again. It was a terrible thing onshore, with lots of damage. Hopefully, no one was injured or killed.”

“Yes, the local news gave a report. I think one person was killed, but not sure.”

“Thanks for the rescue of the dinghy. Much appreciated,” Wolfgang says. 

“Bye for now”, Wolfgang, Mike and Andreas say together.

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.

Mike says, “She just stayed right there all night, 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’s useless in the chain locker.”

I will make that a lesson learnt, Wolfgang. Get the chain out, don’t leave it in the locker. Out is better makes sense.”

Mike cuts the engine, and we drift slowly to the yacht. Wolfgang grabs the bathing platform and jumps on, taking both painters.

Peter leaps aboard. “Thanks for the lift. Mike appreciates it. We’re going to get some sleep and then later go to the yacht club for a drink. Come over if you like. I want to buy you a couple of beers.”

“OK, around 6:00?”

Yep, 6:00 pm it is. See you later, bye, Mitzie.”

We head back to Ruffles Spray. Mike goes down to the chart table and looks at the weather forecast on the NAVTEXT. I presume he missed this ritual earlier.

He says, “Oh dear, it looks like there’s a strong wind warning for tomorrow. Gale-force winds are forecast for the Balearics from 8:00 a.m. tomorrow, the 25th.

“We will stay right here, I think. North 7 to 8, then increasing to gale force 9 later. Oh well, if it ever rains, 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.”

“OK, OK, just a drink, then we can come back and go to bed for a good night’s sleep.”

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

Mario, Rachel, Wolfgang, Peter, Mike, Ann, Monty, and me sit on the Club Nautico terrace overlooking the bay and the small marina. 

The crews have already had two rounds of drinks. Wolfgang bought the first, and Mario bought 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 vavor.”

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. “Looks like a bit of a storm tomorrow, but 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 says, “Have you been in San Antonio 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 all survived, and we are all well, I think. Can you grab some chairs and join us?”

Merrick says, “We will have a drink with you, but we booked a table at 7:30 p.m.”

The waitress appears, takes the order and heads to the bar.

Wolfgang tells his tale, Mike tells his, and Mario tells his. “Merrik says, “We were in the marina moored to a pontoon. A big thump wakes me up. I went on deck to investigate and saw the mayhem on the beach and road. Then, the keel of our Halberg Rassey must have touched the bottom as the sea receded. It bumped a few times, so the sea must have gone down by two or three meters. It was all bizarre. We couldn’t sleep for hours. I think I must have dozed off around 4:00 am. Seems to be all over now, though.”

Mike says, “There’s a bit of wind coming tomorrow morning. The forecast is gale-force winds.”

“Oh, yes, seen that forecast; it’ll be fine here, nicely sheltered from the north.”

“Yes, that seems to be 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 do believe you are correct.” He glances over to the end of the breakwater. “Look at the breakwater end. There’s some white water, lots of spray thrown up around the big rocks there.”

I looked around, and as he said, it was not as calm as when we arrived at the yacht club.

Ruffles Spray is lying nicely to the anchor, just some slight movement, but nothing unusual.

We arrive and are lifted on board, then Mike removes the outboard and puts it on its mounting on the starboard railings.

Then, he ties the painter to the centre railing stanchion and enters the cockpit. 

“There we are, all ready for the night.”

After dinner, the crew sits in the cockpit. Monty lies with Ann, and I am on Mike’s starboard side.

It is dark outside, but the lights are shining from the shore, and it’s lovely. This time last night, the tsunami hit. Everyone is relieved that it’s relatively calm.

There’s still wind. My guess is it’s fifteen knots, but I am not good at guessing windspeed.

We all head below for bed.

25 May 2003, 1:30 am, San Antonio 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 shear 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 loudly 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 let us hit you!

At that moment, the sky around us lights up in a flash of lightning. It’s like when a photographer takes a photo, the flashlights 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 they all disappear, just like the switch was flicked, and the light goes out.