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The route (intended) Part II

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We will be heading back to the Azores in a couple of weeks, to get Fettler ready for sea again and make our way back to Edinburgh. The route on the map above comes with all the usual caveats of sea travel.

As always, we will update the blog to keep pace with our progress to departure and after arrival.

Winterising blues

It's always a bit of a sad time when you're wrapping the boat up for winter. We've been chipping away at all the wee jobs: varnishing, taking down and washing halyards, dinghy, canvas, servicing of outboard and inboard engines, etc., since we returned from Angra.
The weather hasn't been particularly cooperative, with brisk winds and frequent showers being the rule. Today, however, is lovely and we've used it to good effect. Good forecast for tomorrow as well, so it shouldn't be a problem to take care of the last few items on the list and still have a little time for relaxation before our early morning departure on Tuesday.
Then, it's back to Edinburgh to find jobs for the winter in order to replenish the coffers so that we can come back to the Azores in the spring and sail Fettler the rest of the way home.
It's been quite a trip so far. Many remarkable experiences, people and places encountered and the urge to roam satisfied for a little while, at least. Thanks for following along and keep an eye out for the continuing adventures of Fettler.

Running bull

We’re on our last little cruise of the season – a jaunt to Terceira, 90 miles from Sao Miguel. The marina at Angra do Heroismo where we are staying must be one of the most scenic marinas around. It’s right in the heart of Angra, a UNESCO World Heritage site that has served as the Portuguese capital on more than one occasion, overlooking a volcanic hill on one side and a beautiful Renaissance church (whose bells toll every quarter of an hour) on the other.

Terceira is the third island in the Azores that we’ve visited. It’s also the third largest -and the third one that was discovered by the Portuguese – hence the name. The island’s main claim to fame is its fighting bulls that are regularly run in the streets for sport and entertainment. The tradition, apparently, dates back to a memorable occasion some four centuries ago when a mass-release of bulls drove the invading Spaniards back into the sea, with much loss of life. We went to one such bull-running festival in a small village yesterday – what enjoyable madness.

It was quite a gala event, the main street through the village being blocked off for the occasion and all the householders along the road having boarded up their gates and fences to protect them from and keep out the maddened, rampaging bulls. There was a beer and a bifana (pork sandwich) in nearly every hand and pleasurable anticipation on every face lining the walls and balconies along the street, while the white-shirted, black-hatted bull handlers secured their long rope around the animal’s neck and prepared to release it from the box.

We arrived just in time for the first bull and hurried through the village, looking for a free spot on one of the stone walls along the thoroughfare. No sooner were we settled there than the mighty bang of a rocket announced the beginning of the fun.

We were around a bend in the road from the release site, so had to wait a short while for the action to reach us but it wasn’t long before the melting away of those still in the road announced the coming of the bull.

There were a small group of chief goaders, equipped with an umbrella or cape, who took turns tantalising the bull and directing the action back and forth from one end of the village to the other. In addition to these ‘official’, and rather skilled, operatives, there were others who would try their luck with the bull, shouting and stamping to draw its wrath before retreating hastily onto the nearest wall. A couple of times, these daredevils hopped up right next to us, with the bull charging up behind and once staring me right in the eye, clearly considering whether it would be worth the effort to jump the wall. He didn’t jump our wall but did, at one point, manage to break into one of the temporary food courts along the street.

The bull, for his part, looked alternately indignant and enraged. He would stand, pawing the ground, and look around to discover who might be responsible for this outrage. A willing volunteer would then present himself, shouting “Oi! Oi!” and waving his arms or umbrella. The bull would then charge, only to be led in circles behind his agile tormentor, who would sometimes grab ahold of the bull’s horn before spinning out of the way.

After nearly half an hour of this, the now exhausted and slavering bull was recaptured into his box and a new one prepared for release, following a short break for refreshments.

Following the retirement of the second bull, the young boys had their moment of glory with a similarly roped sheep running up and down the street and we slipped away amongst the hilarity, clutching our own beer and bifanas for the walk home.

Shorebound....

...But not for much longer.
Just a brief note to let you all know that we haven't dropped off the end of the earth, have been back in Scotland for the last couple of weeks and will be returning to P. Delgada and Fettler next week.
The evening before we departed, we invited several of our fellow sailors over for drinks. Around a dozen came on board (including one very cute ship's cat, who showed up spontaneously later on) and we found, as Fran and Dave had before us, that it was necessary to close the cockpit scuppers with that many people on board as the extra weight was causing it to fill with water!
The first, and most important, order of business when we arrived back home was to attend the wedding of some old and dear friends. It was small, but perfectly formed and one of the rare instances when the entire core of our old gang from university days manage to all gather together.
The event took place in beautiful Fort Augustus, on the banks of Loch Ness and, of course, on the route of the Caledonian Canal - definitely looking forward to the passage through there next year.
After the wedding, I stayed on a few days to help the groom get caught up on some hedge trimming, while Sonja travelled on to Berlin to visit her folks.
Back in Edinburgh, we've been busy unpacking and sorting out the stuff we brought back from the States with us, as well as the things that we packed away before going to the US three and a half years ago.
After four months living on the boat, it seems like a lot of stuff! In fact, shore-living has come as a bit of a shock after the simplicity of life at sea, leaving us both eager to get back out there. When we do get back, we hope to squeeze in a few more weeks of Azorean cruising, before bedding down the boat for winter.

Santa Maria cont'd....

Where was I...? Ah, yes, the excrement making contact with the fan.
Just the usual, really, when one dares to spend a few days in a less than totally protected anchorage - unforecast windshift to the one vulnerable direction. We were expecting a cold front to pass over, bring a bit of rain and then for things to settle down for a couple of days. Still, I had an ill-defined feeling of dread keeping me awake that night, which was fully justified when the wind shifted with some force to the northeast and started building the seas that would soon be rolling into our beautiful bay and giving us a good shaking.
We lay there awake the rest of the night, hoping things would settle down and thinking of the rocks nearby, onto which the wind was doing its best to force us. With the coming of the dawn, it was clear we really couldn't hold on and must evacuate.
Rather foolishly, we had left the dinghy trailing in the water and full of snorkeling gear, etc., so that had to be emptied out and put away under rigorously bouncing conditions. By this point, the depth alarm was going off as the tide receded and the waves built, so we first upped anchor and moved out to give a more comfortable margin.
The dinghy was a hassle, but we got it all stowed away without any drama and commenced preparations for departure.
All night, I had been wondering why the anchor chain was making such a din and had put it down to the rough conditions. It was, however, due to the fact that the chain hook had parted company with the snubber. Perhaps some lucky snorkeler will find it there in the bay...
Our initial thought, after clearing the bay, was to head straight for P. Delgada, but the seas were a mess, after the wind shift, and then the eyebolt that I had fitted to Nanette's quadrant (for attaching the control lines) snapped. I clung on grimly to the after deck while making an emergency repair and was soon projectile-seasick. That settled it. We freed off downwind and made for Vila do Porto, hoping to find refuge.
Vila do Porto, remember, is open only to the southeast and the winds had been west through noreast for a good few days. Nevertheless, a large southerly swell was emanating from somewhere between here and Antarctica and was pounding into the harbour mouth and bouncing all over the place inside. Still, it was at least possible to anchor safely inside, if not comfortably. We couldn't even be bothered to relaunch the dinghy under those conditions and passed the remainder of the day sleeping and reading and watching the dramatic arrival of another yacht (Danish-flagged). They first tried one wall, then the other, then a couple of spots with the anchor before they finally settled next to us.
Two of them, Ken and Tobias, joined us for drinks later in the evening. Ken and his wife are on a megatrip from Denmark to New Zealand and take various crew along for various bits (they've space for 8 aboard).
We couldn't leave without having a look at the island's interior, so we dinghied ashore the next morning and walked/hitched across to the beautiful village of Maia, where we bathed in the thrilling (good wave action) sea pool (see photo). The islanders were friendly and the beauty of the place amply compensated us for our anchorage woes.
A look at the forecast suggested that night would be the best time for the passage back to P. Delgada, so off we went, pulling out just before sunset. An astonishingly fine night's sail followed with fair winds speeding us over slight seas. In fact, we arrived quite a bit earlier than intended, which meant a 2-hour wait tied up to the odious fuel dock, before the marina office opened. The approach to P. Delgada was enlivened by the presence of quite a variety of shipping, including a Chillian Corvette (I had a laugh listening to them call up the harbour, only to be told to wait as the pilot was 'busy'), a container ship, a ferry, a square-rigged sailing vessel, tugboats and pilot vessels!
Now making preparations for our departure for Scotland on Thursday. Drop us a line, people! You know what we've been up to, so what about you? We'll write back, promise...

Santa Maria (Eulalia!)

Lovely little cruise to 'Sao Miguel's little sister', Santa Maria, but we're now slightly sleep-deprived.
It all started on Sunday, with a dawn departure from Ponta Delgada. Winds were light, so we had a smooth and relaxing motorsail the fifty-odd miles down. Curiously, given that there's plenty of EU money flowing into these islands, they don't appear to have heard of freedom of travel within the EU. I had to check out of Ponta Delgada before departure, then check in at Santa Maria, then check back in at Ponta Delgada when we returned. The process here in P. Delgada is reasonably streamlined, at least. In Vila do Porto, it was an entirely different matter. We arrived at around 1830 on Sunday evening and I was pleasantly surprised to find that the Policia Maritim officers drove down to meet me when I landed (dinghy tied up to a slimy, rusty ladder attached to a sea urchin-encrusted wall). Those two characters were great - friendly, efficient and speaking good English. We completed the usual forms, document inspection, etc. and then they handed me over to the Guardia Civil do Republica. This chap was nice enough, but apallingly slow. He agonised over each entry on the form, pen hovering over the blank space while the precious minutes ticked by. That being completed, he then handed me another blank copy of the same form, to fill in for customs! 1 hour, killed.
The following morning, I made my way along to the Harbour Master's office. Here I handed over the documents to a man who disappeared for a good half hour before returning with a beautiful certificate and a bill for 2 Euros - lighthouse tax. Another hour killed.
We hauled anchor and sailed around the island to the truly spectacular anchorage at Sao Lourenco. It's half of a volcanic cone (not sure what happened to the other half - on the seafloor somewhere?), with lovely terraced vineyards rising up the steep slopes all round. We had a delightful couple of days there, snorkelling and exploring a sea-cave by dinghy. Then, on Tuesday night, the shit hit the fan.
To be continued (got to go snooze now)...