The Gates Of Hell

Cape Taineron is supposedly where Hades keeps the front door unlocked, and by the time we got there, I was inclined to believe it. The wind went from sporty to stupid in a hurry. Twenty knots, then twenty-five, then thirty-five, with seas big enough to make Madonna feel humble.

We went looking for a hole to hide in and found one that looked good on paper. The cruising guide even showed a big cave, labeled in cheerful ink as the Gates of Hades. Comforting, right? This is where the Ionian and Aegean collide and generally chew up boats that didn’t get the memo. Smart sailors avoid it. That disqualified us immediately.

We tried anchoring in a tiny nook where the bottom dropped off like a politician’s promises. Second try, we dropped the hook in twenty feet and paid out a heroic amount of chain. By the time we were done, we were parked in water deep enough to lose submarines. I figured averages are good enough for accountants and sailors, so we ate dinner and went to bed.

At two in the morning Woody wakes me up after a trip to relieve himself and informs me we are now drifting in 350 feet of water. The anchor had politely walked off the shelf while we slept. Lovely. We fired up the engine, hauled the hook, and decided the open sea was safer. At least the bottom out there didn’t sneak up on you.

A day later we were smack in the middle of the Ionian, 120 miles from anything resembling land. Sunrise, flat calm, the sea smoother than a runway model’s conscience. I’m on watch at six a.m. when I smell smoke. Smoke offshore is never part of the fun plan.

I dive below and open the engine room door and get blasted with smoke thick enough to slice. No fire, just an eighty-dollar exhaust hose that decided retirement was better than employment. Naturally, I didn’t have a spare. We spent two hours playing boat surgeon, stealing hose from the anti-siphon loop and wrestling it onto fittings that had been married for eleven years. Ever try pulling old hose off cast iron? It’s like removing pantyhose when nobody is helping.

Eventually we fixed it and kept trucking. We slipped past Messina, past the toe of Italy kicking Sicily, and decided to keep rolling since nothing else was currently exploding. Volcanoes lined the route like nervous system tests, but they behaved.
Cagliari was our halfway point across the Med. The generator promptly threw another tantrum, blowing oil like it was trying to paint the bilge. The local mechanic didn’t speak English, we didn’t speak Italian, and the generator spoke profanity. He declined the job. Fair enough.

Crew went out partying, stumbled back at dawn, and we departed just as they fell into coma mode. Perfect timing.
Ibiza fixed the generator again, and after a short recovery we pointed the bow at Gibraltar. Downwind sailing, sunset on the horizon, and the strange feeling that all the mechanical nightmares were worth it. We’d sailed the same waters as Columbus and Odysseus and all those other guys who didn’t have GPS or spare parts. History has lousy maintenance support.
Gibraltar greeted us with Force 9 winds, so we tied up and told heroic sea stories instead of becoming one. While rebuilding yet another stubborn piece of machinery, I met a Malaysian biker who knew his motorcycles. We drank beer, talked bikes and boats, and I assumed he was crew. Ugly American reflex.

Turns out he owned the 72-foot Swan I’d been drooling over. Not just owned it. He was a prince. Actual royalty. Currently The Sultan Of Malaysia!) Prince Idris Shah, sailing to Daytona for Bike Week on his way around the world. He offered me a Harley and an invitation to a regatta. I kept calling him the Malaysian deckhand anyway, because some habits deserve preservation.
We stocked up like the apocalypse was sponsored by a grocery store, waited for the winds to chill out, and finally launched with a small flotilla of familiar boats. The big rally fleet was three days behind us. Two hundred boats crossing together. We preferred a head start, mostly to avoid bumper boats in the Atlantic.

And that’s how we sailed out of Gibraltar, pockets lighter, stories heavier, and the boat only partially on fire. A successful passage by our standards.