by Martin van der Wal

There is no place like home.

*Deck swab boogie- Image Martin van der Wal*

Curious isn’t it how the mind plays tricks on us? A favourite one — that game played between needs and wants. I ‘want’ this, I ‘need’ that, how rarely we stop and consider the difference.

Personally, for a number of years, years where I battened the hatches riding the storms ‘Donna Fortuna’ sent my way, I truly believed that I ‘needed’ a dream, a dream of sailing the Med. ‘No plans just options’ was the mantra I muttered as I embarked on the adventure. High hopes of satisfying this pressing ‘need’ to shake myself loose. Loose of ghosts, memories of ghosts, and ties that bind. My few possessions went under a friend’s house, the car was sold, the boat safe on a beefed up mooring with a proper sailor promising to keep an eye on her. I looked down, the country’s red heart slipped away. Droning engines backgrounded my determination to be dockside Antibes for the first Classic Regatta of the Mediterranean Season, ready to accept whatever fate apportioned. The flickering dance between the fire of fate and the smoke of free-will mesmerises and amuses the observant sailor. Heathrow dawn entry hall war-zone, an email from a friend: Mahler’s 9th at the Barbican tonight, Haitink conducting, “Do you want to go?” Standing ovation after standing ovation, I’m swaying from exhaustion and emotion. A haunting, elegiac, overpowering performance dedicated by the LSO to all the fresh young lives torn to bits the night before in Manchester. I detect an uneasy siege mentality brooding in the basement of people’s minds.

Antibes turns on its warm charm, little changed, but acutely aware of what had happened on the Boulevard at Nicé. Six-packs of heavily armed troops patrol quaint alleyways, the town holds its breath, awaiting the summer onslaught of holidaymakers. Busy dockmasters bark into their radios as one fabulous Classic after another come stern-to onto the unforgiving basalt sea-wall. The Press Pass dangled from my neck, tangling with a brace of cameras at every opportunity. Everyone was arriving. All the boats I had read about. Many others of equal beauty and interest. Australians and Kiwis disproportionately represented amongst the crews. On the wall late in the day, catching some golden light, a large schooner lines up a gap and begins her unassisted reverse. Not a dock-hand to be seen. Bloody cameras! They make catching a line pretty difficult as they swing around your neck. I managed it. A broad Kiwi voice sings-out, “Thanks a lot mate, where are they all?” A swift tie up during which I throw out the question, “Does she need crew?”

*Gaffers Rule — OK- Image Martin van der Wal*

Morwenna (waves of the sea), a 1914 Linton Hope 55 foot topsail gaff schooner, was to be my home for almost a month. A Classic amongst Classics, restored to period perfection by her Swiss interior architect owner, an ideal platform for a photographer and a challenging vessel to rig and sail. Totally ‘old school’ — timing and brute force required for every manoeuvre. I had to pinch myself as we left Antibes heading for our next Regatta, Argentario on the Tuscan coast. We were just two-up, the owner and myself dodging stubborn Bowhead Whales as our local Star purple hazed. Flashing buoys surrounded us, unmarked on any chart! It turned out that under every buoy a hydrophone recorded whale songs. The sea floor was more than 2000 metres below us we were sailing through a compression zone, whales spouted all around. Such a brilliant night, huge full moon casting shadows under the lip of every gloaming wave. Alone on the helm at three in the morning I hear a deep sigh. Moon-silvered water shedding, nickel-plated gleaming, high-rail leaping, a porpoise looks me full in the eye and disappears soundlessly. I run forward to catch a glimpse of several more gamboling in our phosphorescent bow-wave, they vanish in a flash. The owner hears my footfalls, he’s an hour late for change of watch, but who’s counting on this magical night. Reluctantly I turn in only to awaken as the vast golden disc of the sun dominates a shimmering dawn, Elba to port, Corsica to starboard, MonteChristo on the bow. Fabled shorelines dribble past.

We tie up stern-to between S&S yawls Argyle to port and Skylark to starboard. The warm evening passeggiata segues into raucous dining on the bustling Corse di Porto Santo Stefano. Welcome to Tuscany! Argentario does not disappoint, fresh breezes, warm days, long legs triangulating the spectacular bay. We race all day, everyday.

*Mariska and Cambria- Image Martin van der Wal*

At days end my retreat is a cool wine bar overlooking the fleet. Young cosmopolitans mixed with grandmothers and priests, not a sailor in sight, endless delicious anti-pasta free with the excellent local wine. I have realised that pretty well every boat here except ours is professionally crewed. A youthful full-of-it-ness camaraderie characterises their beery off-duty hours. My introverted soul finds it all a bit unnecessary. The Regatta is over — some crazy days in Rome follow. I genuflect to a heroic bronze of Giordano Bruno on my way to a black truffle feast with friends at the Cantina Lucifero. Battling a hangover at Fiumicino I hopelessly explain to Italian border officials why I don’t have an entry stamp in my passport. “Lei avrà ragione,” ‘she’ll be right’ — they wave me through. A hectic Art and Music fortnight courtesy of my friend in London, then on to Spetses for the first of the previous stories you may have read in this journal.

*Cambria hardens up — Oops!- Image Martin van der Wal*

“When are you going back?” A question I’ve fielded more than once. Of course it is in the fielding of such a question that one finds answers lurking in the anchor locker. Answers perhaps quite surprising to myself. I’m not the first traveller to come home with a freshened appreciation. An unexpected response, needing some reflection — I have always been a hopeless Eurotragic. Old stones oozing with literature, multilingual sophistication, philosophy embedded landscapes, time-worn traditions of food, art, music, culture, the sacred aspirations of architecture, men tinged with ennui, women with dusty voices. All this comes to nothing as I once again check the rolling hitch keeping the ‘A’ pennant taut on the aft-lower, casting a weather-eye towards Manly to ascertain the thickness of the haze. Looking up to Beashel, the Heads loom. Sea and rock, timeless, wild, and unforgiving. I haven’t seen a fraction of what the world has to offer, but from what I’ve seen, Sydney Harbour, once memorably described as the “Wet kiss from the heart of the city” is a sailor’s paradise. In the first twelve months of my return Hoana crossed more than fifty starting lines. Year round racing is a certainty here. Our delightfully picturesque Club is characterized by an honest commitment to unpretentious sailing. As for my boat — well here I had better bite my tongue. Suffice to say, her tiller ‘needs’ my hand, her tell-tales ‘want’ my eye. There is no place like home.