39° 20' 01.5" N 8° 23' 59.5" E
Weigh anchor and cast off:
Sailing the blue Mediterranean Sea
Open sea, alabaster beaches, blue grottos. What could be more beautiful than the Mediterranean? But a visit to Sardinia on an old, well-travelled sailing yacht is a next-level experience. Amidst the crooning of the lines and the thrumming of the shrouds, you’ll discover beauty where you never thought to look.
The old sailing ship lies in a marina in the south of Sardinia. Masts tower against the sky, flags flutter. A warm wind wafts across the yachts and your nostrils fill with a promise of the days to come. Soon, our universe will smell of salt water and we’ll no longer feel the solid earth beneath our feet.
The gangway is made up of two narrow planks. Once on deck, we have to grab onto shrouds and clamber past the life raft before stepping down a step into the cockpit.
‘Welcome on board’, says the skipper, barefoot on deck, grey hair visible beneath a straw hat.
I figure we’re pretty safe here, no need to grab tight to anything or scramble hand over hand. Looking up, I see the masts rising fifteen metres into the sky. Fragile-looking fingers pointing toward the clouds.
My eyes wander around the boat where I’ll be spending the next few days. My home on the water. Thick sail sheets lie across the winches, the ends of the reefs dangle from the boom. Midships, the steering wheel glistens in the sun. A large compass is mounted on a bronze base in front of it. The compass rose is suspended in pure alcohol and covered with a cut glass dome. A beautiful instrument, I think, a symbol of the discovery of the earth, of the beginning of travel.
This trip is not about going ashore. Nor dropping anchor in a bay or harbour. Different coordinates determine our point of arrival this time.
The skipper interrupts my contemplations. ‘There are two companionways on board’, he says. ‘With steps leading down into the cabin. But please don’t stomp around. This isn’t a sailing boat, it’s a grand dame.’
Sailors are a curious breed. I believe they really think boats have a soul. They don’t just creak and whistle in the wind, but actually have character. Shooting over the waves at seven knots, winging across the open water like a seabird, their boat is ‘happy’, sailors will maintain.
I don’t know what to think about this. Perhaps the odd sea captain has swallowed a little too much seawater.
I look around below deck. Nautical instruments everywhere: telescopes, radios, charts. A petroleum lamp hangs in the galley, a net of lemons. The air is permeated by the smell of paint and sailcloth. The boat rocks gently, the world’s tipping left to right, right to left. I had clean forgotten we were floating.
The skipper interrupts my contemplations. ‘There are two companionways on board’, he says. ‘With steps leading down into the cabin. But please don’t stomp around. This isn’t a sailing boat, it’s a grand dame.’
Sailors are a curious breed. I believe they really think boats have a soul. They don’t just creak and whistle in the wind, but actually have character. Shooting over the waves at seven knots, winging across the open water like a seabird, their boat is ‘happy’, sailors will maintain.
I don’t know what to think about this. Perhaps the odd sea captain has swallowed a little too much seawater.
I look around below deck. Nautical instruments everywhere: telescopes, radios, charts. A petroleum lamp hangs in the galley, a net of lemons. The air is permeated by the smell of paint and sailcloth. The boat rocks gently, the world’s tipping left to right, right to left. I had clean forgotten we were floating.
‘A grand dame?’, I ask. ‘Yes, an elderly American’, the skipper responds. His yacht is thirteen metres long, he explains, four metres wide and weighs twelve metric tons. It was built in Florida in 1979. For twenty years, it sailed around the Caribbean before crossing over to Sardinia and into one of the most beautiful sailing areas in the Mediterranean.
‘This boat is a real blue-water buggy’, the skipper says. Its name is Solemar – sun and sea. Did he name it? ‘For heaven’s sakes, no!’ Renaming a boat would bring very bad luck, the skipper mutters. An old yacht wouldn’t like it. It could cause grief. Or even offense!
A sailor’s yarn? Superstition? Or does the exaggeration conceal a deeper truth? As a novice, you don’t know what to think. Existential questions, and we haven’t even left the harbour.
A hundred years ago, the seasoned seafarer and literary genius Joseph Conrad wrote: ‘The love that is given to ships is profoundly different from the love men feel for every other work of their hands – the love they bear to their houses, for instance.’
Love, ardour, passion: what does this tell us? That we can care deeply about a sailing boat? That objects can actually have a soul – the further they travel, the more we experience with them?
The compass is a beautiful instrument. It’s a symbol of the discovery of the earth, of the beginning of travel.
The boat flies westward, into the open sea. A murmur passes through the sails as if the venerable grand dame were conversing quietly with herself.
A honey-yellow sun shines over the Mediterranean the next morning. The sea sparkles in front of the moles, the Sardinian mountains rise in the north. The skipper looks into the wind and reads the clouds. ‘Release the bow lines, release the stern lines, we’re ready to sail.’
The boat chugs away from the shore. A ferry approaches, passes the harbour mouth. After half a nautical mile we hit the open sea. The skipper turns the boat into the wind. Turns handles on drums, pulls lines taut, cranks like crazy. The sails unfurl. Each triangular wing hoisted into the air like the dome of a desert tent.
The boat flies westward, into the open sea. A murmur passes through the sails as if the venerable grand dame were conversing quietly with herself.
A honey-yellow sun shines over the Mediterranean the next morning. The sea sparkles in front of the moles, the Sardinian mountains rise in the north. The skipper looks into the wind and reads the clouds. ‘Release the bow lines, release the stern lines, we’re ready to sail.’
The boat chugs away from the shore. A ferry approaches, passes the harbour mouth. After half a nautical mile we hit the open sea. The skipper turns the boat into the wind. Turns handles on drums, pulls lines taut, cranks like crazy. The sails unfurl. Each triangular wing hoisted into the air like the dome of a desert tent.
And then the miracle occurs. The skipper bears away, changes course and cuts the engine. The sails fill, reaching for the wind. The boat leans to one side and picks up speed. The venerable American now does what it was made for: travelling gracefully across the sea, lightly carried by the wind. Twelve tons held up by the marvel of buoyancy, powered by the magic of propulsion.
We sail.
The novice has to get accustomed to it all. The boat yaws and rolls as it throws its hull into the waves. Nothing is static, nothing is still. Everything flows, submitting to a gentle rhythm. In fact, the boat nods every five seconds. The bow rises and falls. Moving through the water at a speed of six knots, the stem plants a kiss on each oncoming wave.
The novice has to get accustomed to it all. The boat yaws and rolls as it throws its hull into the waves. Nothing is static, nothing is still. Everything flows, submitting to a gentle rhythm. In fact, the boat nods every five seconds. The bow rises and falls. Moving through the water at a speed of six knots, the stem plants a kiss on each oncoming wave.
I’m obviously starting to lose it – although it’s less than an hour since we left the shore! Talk about rhythms, of noses! All this stuff about kissing! I should probably shut up now.
The skipper, straw hat low over his face, talks enthusiastically about little-known bays that we could visit. Villasimius in the east, as green as a pool. Teulada in the south, as blue as a lagoon. Sant’Antioco in the west, as beautiful as it was a thousand years ago.
‘Snow-white beaches’, says the skipper. Maquis-covered dunes and small fishing ports. South Sardinia in late September’, he adds, as if to himself. ‘That’s the best time of year. The sea is still warm, the holidays are over. There’s nobody else here. It’s a dream, just how you want it.’
Sailors are a curious breed. They say ships have a soul and can actually be happy. Are they spinning yarn? Who can say for sure?
I’m starting to suspect that this trip was never really about going ashore. About dropping anchor in a particular bay or harbour. Different coordinates determine our point of arrival this time. It’s not about being near water, but on it. The sea, the wind, the joy of travelling on a craft that humans invented thousands of years ago in order to set out and explore the world.
After a few days at sea, I find I’ve grown fond of our sailing grand dame, this boat that dances so delicately over the water, ambles through the waves. The wind flows through its sails, streaming past the giant surfaces like a spirit. The only sound is a soft whistling, a gentle song. Listen carefully and you’ll catch it.
Below deck, the boat creaks and whines. The wood groans and the fastenings complain as the twelve-ton boat leans sideways and races through the swell. Everything staggers and lurches. ‘We’re doing approximately six knots’, says the skipper. ‘We’re on a good beam reach, she loves it.’
Sardinia slips past to the north. Porto Pino, a broad bay against a petrol-coloured sea. We drop anchor, come to rest. Weightlessly, without a sound. The Solemar lies quietly in the water, swinging at anchor. Ripples spill onto its hull, play around its bow. Fish swim beneath the keel, silvery creatures in the luminous blue.
In the next days we glide westward along Sardinia’s southern coast. The venerable American doesn’t say a word. This must be familiar, the sea, the fish. After thousands of nautical miles, the boat follows its course contentedly. Is she happy? I can’t say. After so many voyages, so many years at sea, it’s quite possible. Perhaps objects do eventually come alive. Become comrades, companions.
The sails on the old two-master show signs of wear: rust, sand from the Sahara. The genoa clew is damaged, the white cloth hanging in shreds. These are the Solemar’s wrinkles, evidence of an active life.
Below deck, the boat creaks and whines. The wood groans and the fastenings complain as the twelve-ton boat leans sideways and races through the swell. Everything staggers and lurches. ‘We’re doing approximately six knots’, says the skipper. ‘We’re on a good beam reach, she loves it.’
Sardinia slips past to the north. Porto Pino, a broad bay against a petrol-coloured sea. We drop anchor, come to rest. Weightlessly, without a sound. The Solemar lies quietly in the water, swinging at anchor. Ripples spill onto its hull, play around its bow. Fish swim beneath the keel, silvery creatures in the luminous blue.
In the next days we glide westward along Sardinia’s southern coast. The venerable American doesn’t say a word. This must be familiar, the sea, the fish. After thousands of nautical miles, the boat follows its course contentedly. Is she happy? I can’t say. After so many voyages, so many years at sea, it’s quite possible. Perhaps objects do eventually come alive. Become comrades, companions.
The sails on the old two-master show signs of wear: rust, sand from the Sahara. The genoa clew is damaged, the white cloth hanging in shreds. These are the Solemar’s wrinkles, evidence of an active life.
The boat wings over the frothy waves at a speed of seven knots. True sailing bliss.
The following day, the skipper wants to leave early. We weigh anchor and set sail around 8 a.m. The old boat saunters downwind and out to sea in search of the horizon, until the land vanishes from sight. Our vessel sails into the blue as if heading for Micronesia, as if ready to sail around the world, stopping neither for barriers nor for borders.
The skipper activates the autopilot and the boat captains itself, flying westward as if willing to cross the Atlantic, the Pacific or any other ocean. A soft murmur passes through the sails, a whisper, as if the venerable grand dame were conversing quietly with herself.
And now ask me again: Do sailing boats have a soul? Can objects come alive?
After several days at sea, I no longer hesitate at all. Of course, sailing boats have a soul! They sing, they breathe, they shiver in the cold. They fly, they take off into the air, they’re happy.
And now I know why. Without their stories, without life – they wouldn’t be dead, but we would.
The following day, the skipper wants to leave early. We weigh anchor and set sail around 8 a.m. The old boat saunters downwind and out to sea in search of the horizon, until the land vanishes from sight. Our vessel sails into the blue as if heading for Micronesia, as if ready to sail around the world, stopping neither for barriers nor for borders.
The skipper activates the autopilot and the boat captains itself, flying westward as if willing to cross the Atlantic, the Pacific or any other ocean. A soft murmur passes through the sails, a whisper, as if the venerable grand dame were conversing quietly with herself.
And now ask me again: Do sailing boats have a soul? Can objects come alive?
After several days at sea, I no longer hesitate at all. Of course, sailing boats have a soul! They sing, they breathe, they shiver in the cold. They fly, they take off into the air, they’re happy.
And now I know why. Without their stories, without life – they wouldn’t be dead, but we would.
Marc Bielefeld
Author
From a balloon to the desert, out to sea, into the ice: in twelve captivating reports and podcasts, the author describes fascinating places around the world and encounters with remarkable people.
marcbielefeld.de
Jens Görlich
Photographer
Great moments, peaceful bliss, poignant scenes: the photographer from Frankfurt always has his camera ready to capture what words can’t express.
jens-goerlich.de
Lufthansa
Aluminium Collection
Travel companion
Its whisper-quiet double wheels are gentle on any boat deck, while the packing cube offers separate storage space. With this case, you are ready to go on a sea trip!
worldshop.eu/alu
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