Teutons at home

It seems that in our unhurried holiday sailing mode, daily passages of no more than 40 miles are acceptable so long as they end up plugged into a marina for shore power to run the AC. Bob, given his affluence and 71 years, sort of expects this luxury and how can I deny him. The sadness is that we are sailing past dozens of wooded islands with sandy beaches and beautiful deserted anchorages only to press on to a marina.

Having said that, it does mean that we can walk ashore for our dirty beer (a beer taken directly following a passage before any ablutions in our ‘dirty’ clothes) and the AC is VERY welcome!

After Pula we motored in a flat calm to Cres, a 36 mile passage and another state run ACI marina.

Cres appears to be dominated by Germans, the waiter in the bar greeted us in German as did the ‘Sailors’ (marina staff) and this is despite our prominent red ensign. As we sedately approached the Marina, a German yacht blasted past us to take the prime spot in front of us on the waiting dock. He must have been mortified as I had called ahead and we were met by the marina rib and shown calmly to a berth while he had to wait. He ended up berthing alongside us but we are yet to exchange pleasantries.

Bob writes:-

Our exploits of today served only to reinforce our thoughts of yesterday, the Croats are definitely miserable bast**ds! This was proven by the only bloke to greet us with any levity at all turning out to be Bosnian! I am tempted to use the oft quoted question coined by the late Willie Rushton, ‘Where would we be without a sense of humour?’ His answer used to be ‘Germany’, but I think it would be quite appropriate to substitute ‘Croatia’!

Maybe that’s why there are so many Teutons in the area, a shared sense of impending doom and general lugubriousness?

I take strong exception to the implication that it is down to me, an ageing septuagenarian, who dictates where we shall berth in the evenings!

Last night, for example, I am convinced that Nick quietly decided to get his own back when I suggested that we pull in to a marina to acquire shore power to provide a bit of ‘coolth’, by berthing the boat, stern in, with the transom a full two metres (editor’s note – this is an exaggeration) away from the pontoon.

This may not seem a huge distance to cross when you are gasping for a dirty beer and you have the full width of the pontoon on which to crash land, but with absolutely no run up. It is an entirely different proposition when you return to the boat, laden with provisions, full of ‘dirty beer’ (plural) and whilst you now have the run up available on the pontoon, your inevitable crash landing is fraught to say the least. I find it quite undignified, at my age, to find myself splattered against Hejira’s transom, frantically scrabbling for holds on ladders, cleats, fenders, outboard motors, the odd rope (anything is appropriate at this stage, I don’t give a damn what its nautical name might be!) in an attempt to cling on to the boat as opposed to sliding, not so gracefully, into the brine!

Tonight, I insisted on overseeing the berthing operation more closely and we ended up with a much more modest ‘step’ ashore.

I did explain to the Master that whilst my uncle may have held the school record for long jump for many years, I had not been imbued with that particular gene, neither was I related to Greg Rutherford or, as in my era, Lynn Davies!

I believe that the Master is still considering this, probably positively fulminating over it, and, no doubt, retribution will be exacted!