CRUISING LOGS
Jeff Wrinch extols the beauty of the Spanish coast as he makes his way to the British outpost of Gibraltar
To Gibraltar and beyond, and a UK plastic voyage
Ihad a sudden sinking feeling. I had discovered a nice anchorage up the river in Cádiz, having decided to bypass the ancient port’s marina. The pilot book warned that the swell from passing ferries made the marina very uncomfortable and I thought I’d found the ideal solution. But, as I looked at the electronic vector charts, I realised there was a road bridge between the sea and the anchorage. One of the terrible shortcomings of these types of charts is that the clearance under bridges is often not shown, as was the case now. Would the 20m-high mast of my Southerly 135, Moondance, fit under the bridge? I decided to risk it.
As I approached the bay, it became apparent that my concern was unnecessary. The Queen Mary could have passed under this rather elegant new bridge. It was a good start to my voyage to Málaga to pick up my wife Melanie and our dog Woody. Having overwintered in Gijón, we had spent May and June coming through the beautiful Rías of north-western Spain and down the Portuguese coast to the Algarve. As the temperature climbed into the thirties and the world arrived for their holidays, we left the boat for the summer months in the Guadiana River on the border with Spain. The joys of the English summer having passed, we had planned to come out together to continue the journey east. However, Melanie needed a little more time at home, so I set off on my own to get some miles under the keel.
I put the boat back in the water on 12 September and picked up a cracking westerly wind the following day for a long but exciting 70-mile sail to Cádiz.
This ancient port is yet another of the cities visited by our friend Sir Francis Drake, who had quite a penchant for defeating the Spanish. I wasn’t sure what the welcome would be like here for a sailing Englishman! The city is on a peninsula and was fortified from the very early days with some very sturdylooking walls. Standing on the promenade, I could picture the Spanish soldiers looking out to see Drake anchored just off shore whilst he considered the possibilities of pillaging the city.
The following day, with a westerly still blowing at 20 knots, I headed for the Strait of Gibraltar and the entrance to the Mediterranean. Around 25 miles from Cádiz is the last of the great capes of Spain and the sight of one of the most famous naval engagements ever fought – Cape Trafalgar. I threw up a salute to our main man, Admiral Lord Nelson, who copped it that day.
As I rounded the cape, the big Rif mountains on the north tip of Africa came into sight; just eight miles separate the two great continents of Europe and Africa at this point, with the Strait of Gibraltar running in between. With Trafalgar on my left, Africa on my right and a spanking wind behind me, I turned east towards the Mediterranean Sea and on to the next chapter of our adventure. It was 5,000 miles from my last big turning point when I turned south from the fjords of Norway four years ago; it was a moving moment.
At the southern tip of Spain is a small town called Tarifa where I planned to anchor for the night. I dropped my hook in the outer harbour at about 1700 and dived in for a well-earned swim. As I circumnavigated the boat, I noticed an ominously officiallooking boat making a beeline for me. Indeed, it was the harbour pilot who told me I could not anchor there as it was a national park. I am sure that was tosh as these are generally shown on the chart, but I had heard about belligerent Spanish officials in this area. I decided I wasn’t going to stay in their very industrial harbour with ferries to Tangiers running in and out.
I pulled up the anchor and set sail once again for Gibraltar, 15 miles away. It was going to be a bit of a race to beat the sunset.
The rate of evaporation in the Mediterranean is considerably higher than the amount of water flowing in from its rivers. The result is an extensive height difference between the Mediterranean Sea and the Atlantic Ocean. The water at the western (Atlantic) end of the 30-milelong strait is, at its highest, a staggering 2-3m higher than at the eastern end and there is a permanent easterly current as the waters of the Atlantic try to restore equilibrium. Luckily for me, this added another 3 knots to my speed and in less than an hour, the great Rock of Gibraltar hoved into view.
Often seen as one of the great bastions of the British Empire with all the romance of the gateway to the Mediterranean, it actually turned out to be a bit of a letdown! I have seen some hideous harbours in my time but this truly takes the biscuit. The Bay of Gibraltar is one big tanker park, with the shoreline being consumed by oil refineries. The rock itself has a concrete jungle at its foot akin to a small Hong Kong, with the slopes being carved up by roads and centuries of military detritus.
To rub in the urban aggression of the place, a great gas-carrying ship heading for the harbour continued on a collision course with me, with clearly no intention of giving way, despite me being under sail. Furthermore, I felt something of a minnow parked in front of a superyacht as I checked into the marina!
After a comfortable night, I did the tourist bit and had an interesting morning seeing the famous Gibraltar macaque monkeys and learning about the fascinating military history of the Rock.
I didn’t linger though. I decided to hit the road again shortly after and headed up the Costa del Sol to pick up Melanie and Woody at Málaga.