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Welcome to the special section “BAM 35 Years.” We are presenting “cult” articles from the Motor Boats archive, starting in 1990. A journey through time among stories unobtainable today, even in the great sea of the internet! A dive into the world of epic moments in motor boating. Here is one of the stories we were most passionate about.
From Boats by Motor 1992, no. 9, October, pp. 44-48.
It was supposed to be a peaceful dinghy transfer from southern Corsica to Macinaggio. But on September 4, all of a sudden, the wind started roaring and the sea turned into a white expanse interrupted by rainbows and whirlwinds. Here are the pictures and the tale of a breathtaking adventure.
Friday, September 4. I am in
Around 8 o’clock, having dismantled the tent and set up the dinghy for long sailing, we set off. The sea below is flat, and after adjusting the dinghy’s trim and speed around 22 knots, I can relax in the seat. If this keeps up, I tell myself, it’s a piece of cake. But I haven’t gone two miles that the wind kicks up, from the south though, anything but mistral! Somewhat short and annoying waves form, right in the stern. I hate this sea, which turns gliding into an obstacle course, scarcely less difficult than with sea in the bow.
We don’t get wet, though, and the coast begins to parade to the left, sharp in the clear air of this windy day: the Cerbicali, the Gulf of Portovecchio and the Gulf of Pinarello. Then the wind turns a bit to sirocco and I can catch it by three-quarters, a marvel that makes for fun riding and allows for exciting glides in the hollow of the waves. I also leave the small harbor of Solenzara behind, and as I advance north the wind dies down and the sea becomes almost flat. But it is a strange day. Just during a long lull I catch a glimpse of a long white strip on the sea ahead, which I discover to be a narrow corridor a few hundred yards wide where the wind wedges in from the land in sudden gusts, drenching me thoroughly. Half a mile beyond it’s all over, calm returns. At one o’clock I am in
Sudden gusts come from land, raising the sea into small angry waves, with the crests immediately dragged away by the wind. The only way not to get wet is to point in the direction of the wind, so I go ashore and hit the gas, lowering the bow of the dinghy with the power-trim. In these situations a fast craft is great. Next to me sailed a small ketch, which now has to put up with the ever-increasing gusts of mistral, while I am below the coast in a few minutes and indulge in a dip in the beautiful blue water south of the harbor, enjoying the spectacle of the fire that seems unstoppable. I think the gusts must give way in intensity any moment, as they did this morning, and I wait close by, loitering in Bastia‘s old harbor. I see the special rescue craft coming out, offshore there must be a good flapping and some yachts must be in trouble.
To stay here in Bastia I don’t feel like it, there is nothing worse than having to spend the night in a fully equipped harbor when boating camping: lights, noise, curiosity of passers-by resulting in lack of privacy, no, better to continue to Macinaggio, after all I can sail right down the coast. So I set off with a nice glide and leave Bastia and its suburbs behind. I soon realize, however, that a skillful director has changed the scene in the last half hour. The sea is all swept by lashing gusts, the waves have gotten coarser below the coast and much, much bigger on the horizon. I’m wearing my oilskin in full gear, wool cap and a warm sweater, because moreover the air is nice and cool. Then off down the coast, skimming the reefs, with all senses ready to pick up the light-colored patches that indicate shoals and shallows-I really don’t feel like after so many miles of sea to crash foot and propeller one step from the finish line!
However, the gusts become more and more brazen, and every few seconds I am hit by an increasingly long and lashing shower. The sky is clear, just a few clouds here and there, and most importantly the colors are razor sharp, almost unreal. A few photos are needed, but without sacrificing equipment. I pull the camera out of the bench-chest and transfer it to the small locker next to the steering console with a couple of lenses, more handy. In the meantime, the wind picks up and runs, runs over the water like a desperate man, flattening the waves like a giant iron and raising a dust that flies everywhere in swirls, barriers, walls that a moment later dissolve into nothingness.
Just offshore a cabin cruiser trudges toward Macinaggio dry of sail, and the spectacle of this shell at the mercy of the elements is compelling. Every few minutes the scenery changes dramatically. Now the sea offshore turns brown, then red. This is the light being broken down into spectrum colors by the sun illuminating the droplets suspended in the air, with a magical effect. Meanwhile, I proceed northward and the mistral, no longer held back by the high massif of north-central
I see real white hedges sifting the sea that now exhibits all the colors of the rainbow. The small sailboat advances undaunted, but the horizon now blurs with the sky in a kind of indistinct fog that allows only a glimpse of the deckhouse and mast while hiding the rest of the hull. From the shore come gusts of intense scents of Mediterranean scrub: myrtle, cistus, a wonder that exhilarates the senses. I am terribly fascinated by this spectacle of unleashed nature, trying to photograph it between bursts, clutching the camera downwind against my chest until a moment before the shot is taken and then hiding it hastily in the locker, but the spectacle is impossible to render photographically, not least because one of the greatest thrills is when a burst comes off the coast and runs unleashed over the sea like a cavalry charge only to crash into me in a cascade of water and spray. It would take the Nikonos, but I can’t let go of the guide for a moment, woe betide if the wind picked up!
The dinghy for its part is great. I purposely keep the bow low so that the wind can’t undermine it, but perhaps this is a mistaken fear because I never feel the hull lighten, not even when I try to glide to see reactions. I have now gone 6 or 7 miles from Bastia and am almost halfway there, but the conditions are getting worse by the minute and every meter is becoming tiring. While offshore there have been leaden, steep swells, below the coast the wind performs circus-like shows. If the shore is high and rocky, eddies in the opposite direction are created, rushing against the rocks and raising the foam twenty meters high. If, on the other hand, there is a small valley, a beach, then the sea resembles a plowed field with all the furrows edged with white foam that is diligently picked up and scattered everywhere as from a large broom.
But the show is not yet at its climax, there are still surprises in the sack of Aeolus! And here the gusts are no longer gusts, that the lash of spray is no longer isolated but continuous. Now the wind no longer rumbles, it roars in a fearful, eerie tone. And here is the sea that from blue dappled with white turns white, as after a snowfall. That’s what the white sea is, which I have often read about in tales of high southern latitudes, Cape Horn and company! Now I understand and it is a breathtaking sight, not least because the white expanse is interrupted by spectacular rainbows and endless whirlwinds and eddies that are suddenly created. Impossible to avoid them, they run over the water like crazy dancers and in a moment I am in the middle of them. Then the wind comes from all directions, shaking me, slapping me, the foam comes into my face like sand fists and I can hardly breathe. But inside I am ecstatic, happy to experience the majestic and mighty energy of nature unleashed. The yacht now has a hard time.
At times I lose sight of him as the dust and foam, now real white walls, sweep the sea. Under gusts I repeatedly see the mast bend close to the water and the boat twist in tremendous yawing. There is also a ferry trudging northward, slowly against the unleashed wind, a kind of ghost ship of which only the superstructure is visible while the hull is concealed in the foam hiding the horizon. Photographing is now absolutely impossible, unless I then throw the camera away, and I need both hands to hold on, otherwise the wind will carry me away too. Seven miles from Macinaggio, I must now cross a bay, but the wind is really too strong. I try to look out and the icy shower invests me for a minute or more, forcing me to close my eyes, suffocating me. No, it is too strong, I could make it, but it would be a massacre and not worth it, especially since I would not find such an exceptional ridge in Macinaggio.
I saw earlier a tiny cove where it seemed to me that the wind was a little calmer, I might try to take refuge there. So I reverse course and …pamm! a tremendous crash! I had forgotten that part of the bow pontoon is hinged only on the forward side and the wind turned it around like it was a leaf. Nothing broken fortunately, we proceed. And here is the redoubt, really a little hole, but the wind beats against the rocks and turns back without inflicting too much. I study the gusts, the waves, the currents and finally drop anchor in the middle. Then I stand and watch what happens. It is now evening and before dark I want to be sure of the mooring. The anchor is providentially wedged between two boulders, so much so that I can no longer move it and will have to cut the line if necessary. The heavy chain I adopt acts as a shock absorber and prevents the line from wearing on the rocks. It is a perfect but nightmarish mooring. The dinghy spins like a spinning top in the bay, skimming the rocks on one side and approaching menacingly toward two emerging rocks on the other.
When it now seems as if the keel should crash against these rocks no more than 50 centimeters apart, a sharp blow draws the hull back because the chain is at its limit and the dinghy turns back into less dangerous waters. I stand studying the mooring for a good half hour, then reassured I relax. I realize I am soaked, hungry and chattering my teeth from the cold. The skin is dry, strange. I grab a small mirror and look at myself, bursting out laughing. I am floured from head to toe and the dinghy with me. In fact, the dry air dries the water in short order, and a thin layer of salt remains everywhere. Warm, dry clothes, then a nice soup that I manage to heat thanks to my precious spare stove, along with a good bottle of full-bodied Clos Capitoro del Valico. My eyes glaze over from sleep, but how to sleep? To put the curtain back up not even talking about it, it would be ripped in two minutes. I decide to inflate the sleeping pad and tie it securely on the bow pontoon, along with the sleeping bag, all wrapped in a waterproof tarp. So I do, then slipping into the improvised bedding. I won’t tell you how long I slept, between sudden gusts of wind, the frozen air making me shake like a leaf, and the dinghy always going to sniff the emerging reefs. After midnight, however, the wind began to die down, tomando to the values of a healthy normal gale and allowing me to nap a bit.
Then comes the sunrise, red and beautiful, illuminating theisland of Elba and Capraia close together in the crisp air. A good latte, a dive to free the anchor from its providential grasp and a nice glide to Macinaggio. Here I go to the harbormaster, I really want to know. “Excuse me, how high was the wind from here to Bastia yesterday?” Answer: “On average it was force 8-9, but some gusts exceeded force 10, with winds of more than 120 kilometers per hour.” “Ah, thank you, I meant well, I’ve never seen anything like that before!” “Why, were you sailing?” they ask. “Yes I was coming up from Bastia in my dinghy.” “In a dinghy? But you are crazy!” “But no, it’s a big dinghy, not a dinghy,” and I take off to the dock where my friendly, faithful, inseparable and “big” companion winks at me.
Text and photos by Andrea Ghisotti
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