Elvire II Atlantic Ocean sail boat charters

Stories and photographs from past adventures for canries yacht charters

Life @45' by crew member Robbie (France - Canaries)

I arrived from England in the village of Eze-sur-Mer as the last coffee was being served in the restaurant carriage to the glowing backdrop of the French Maritime Alps to find Ian (the skipper) waiting for me at the station.

Elvire II constructed in the Vendee region of France in 1974 was now ready to be put back into the water; her rebuild at last finished. Ian had worked hard to bring the teak decked Rorqual ketch back to her original beauty.All he had to do now was to collect our third crew member: Didou, a French sailing instructor and we were ready.

Finishing the final goodbyes we freed the mooring wraps, letting the eleven tons of Elvire slide gracefully out of the port to follow the setting sun. The wind was blowing off shore, a light Mistral, giving us the introduction to find our sea legs and mould the fragmented group into one team, it was going to be difficult; one divorced and two never married bachelors all with energetic personalities on fourteen metre's of yacht, we were going to learn some new tricks!

For two nights and two days favorable winds kept us moving south, the North East wind pulsing up to force five was showing us the ideal  speed to identify with the yachts power. With over two hundred and fifty metre's of sail we were regularly hitting ten knots. Elvire was now fully awake, the unyielding sails driving her with a new force as we tackled our first crossing to the Beleares archipelago.

With the sunrise of our second morning transforming the water an oily blue, one of the fishing rods that we were trailing started to shriek as the line was ripped from it's nest. Our first bite, Ian unlocked the bowed rod from its support and half an hour later we had forty kilograms of red tuna quivering on the deck.

For the next forty-eight hours the wind propelled us south and onwards to the island of Menorca. The bond was now developing between man and material as my memory worked over time with components that I had not touched in over two years; winches, swivel blocks and a French cuisine: Easy in the harbor but not the same story at forty-five degrees in another language.

We had moored up in The Bay of Fornells late the evening before, so surrounded by the electrical storms that were giving us our morning's entertainment, we lifted up the anchors and motored over to the village of Fornells with the idea of replenishing the pasta supplies and if possible sort out a beer fund by a sly tuna sale on the side. Doing a reccy of the harbor restaurants, we formulated our scheme; I would leave Didou on the other side of the road, uncover the manager, and then whistle for Didou to show the goods. In theory, a great idea, in practice we were too late in the day. So it was back to the boat to find Ian in stitches over our attempt to cash in on our luck before cooking up a few more of our favorite steaks!

We pulled in on the coast of Ibiza two nights later with a full storm brewing behind us while its cousin circled in front. The direction of the wind was shifting rapidly as we were thrown between the storms. I've never taken sails down that quickly as one of them pulled in on us; the wind, with the rain lashing down brought back memories of the last time I was navigating with Ian when we just missed the rocks in Corsica. Here we were again, surveying the lights between the squalls but this time, the sea walls of Ibiza gave us all the protection needed, so with Elvire safe in the yacht club's marina it was now time to explore.

Ian and myself established that one night getting off our heads was sufficient after we crawled back to the Elvire the next morning. But we had a problem; we had lost Didou somewhere in the depths of the Pasha Night Club. The last time I had noticed him was across a dance floor with over a thousand people partying away to the music of the latest Ibiza vibe. Then he had vanished.

I recall him saying that he wanted to check out the Space. The following evening he landed again, with a tale of a party of parties up in the hills hitting the beat. So with Didou well fastened to the boat suffering from land sickness, the party animals decided that is was time to stir again, this time west; direction Gibraltar.

The horizontal rain was doing its best to claw through our oilskins as the lights of Gibraltar come into view two days later. The swell assaulting The Rock was dispatching twenty-foot jets into the air and with the wind gusting over force nine as it was reflected off the side of the cliffs; it looked as if life had not changed much on home soil. Our first duty when we had located the correct marina was to get passed the customs.

Luckily our only detected problem was the Spanish courtesy flag flying off the port spreader, so with Elvire and ourselves now checked in and the correct flags flapping in the wind it was time for steak and kidney pies and English beer.

We are at last free from the dominant current of the Straits of Gibraltar which had been trying to propel us back into the Mediterranean Sea. We had been lucky;

Elvire had been blasted out into the Atlantic with an astern wind. The lights of Tangier had flashed past, giving us our last views of land as we were driven from between the two continents and onwards to our next port of call, over five hundred and eighty miles away. With a sympathetic wind and current giving us the power, all we had to do was to tune the sails and miss the three sandbanks, situated in the middle of the ocean between the African continent and Porto Santo.
 
Our first views of land in over five days bought a family of dolphins to the side of Elvire. Occasionally as a pair in perfect harmony they would jump out of the sea, their eyes watching, to see who was paying for the ride.

I hope that the first explorers; who where sent south by Henry the Navigator, had the same reception when they rounded the headland for the first time in 1418. It was one of the most magical moments of the crossing, as I spent over twenty minutes hanging over Elvire's bow caressing the backs of the dolphins as they swam with us using our bow-wave as their transport across the grand bleu.

Arriving in Porto Santo that afternoon we decided that our legs needed a stretch and set off above the town and into the hills. The summit of an extinct volcano was our objective.

The walk was easygoing as the island is only covered with light undergrowth after the first settlers introduced their rabbits to the wild. Sadly these happy bunnies then proceeded to eat everything so that after two years, there was virtually no vegetation left on the island. Now our only danger as we made our way, was from the guns who where trying to exterminate them!

Leaving the bay the following day we made our way to Madeira for what was to be a perfect day's sailing with a flat sea and a wind forcing up to five. The fifty-mile crossing passed with cups of tea as we tuned Elvire in our attempt to catch up another yacht that had left Porto Santo just before us.

By the time we were five miles off the East coast of Madeira we were side by side, enjoying our own private regatta. The cries from our friendly competitor could be heard as we slowly took the advantage, our new sails giving us the edge as we rounded the headland a little bit quicker than Captain Cook must have done in 1770.

Over the last six centuries most sea going nations have sent their navigators to this beautiful island. But it was the French pirates, who had spent their time pillaging the treasure ships returning from the New World, which did the most damage when they raised the city of Funchal to the ground in 1566. Fortunately Elvire was flying the European flag, so we were able to slide into the port unrecognized for the nuisance that my two companion's compatriots had handed out. Luckily my ancestors had been welcomed with open arms after they had kept the French at bay during the Peninsula wars of 1801. Friendly history or not there was still no room for us in the harbor, due to the large number of Cross Atlantic yachts which use this port as a stepping stone. So dropping anchor outside the main port we settled down for the night safe from all wind directions except the southerly.

The decision to leave Madeira was dispatched over breakfast the following day while listening to the weather forecast.

This was a worst-case scenario for us. If the storm which was building did track our way the mooring out side the break wall of Funchal would be a dangerous location as the prevailing winds would be due south, forcing us on to the wall. The only realistic option, was to head out to sea in front of the storm and try to find a secure haven in the Canary Islands, over two hundred and eighty miles further south.

The islands disappeared slowly into the distance as we moved south, the light wind not helping as we tried to distance ourselves from the land. The clear blue skies were giving no indication of the developments to our north; maybe we would be lucky. With a final flash the sun disappeared over the horizon and a feeling of calm came over us, as we made ready for the night. That evening I took the first watch, pushing Elvire to her maximum, playing with the wind; sheeting in for more speed as the others tried to get some sleep in their cabins below.

I woke up the next morning to find Ian at the helm, a look of concern on his face as he pointed up to the sky. The colour was a deep red as the sun appeared over the horizon, a layer of high altitude clouds were forming, pushed upwards by the deepening depression that was now spreading her wings. Here was nature's warning, given to us as it started to strangle the upper atmospheres air currents. Our uncertainty was the Selvagens Islands, which were now to our East; we had to clear these volcanic outcrops before we could head for the safety of the Canary Islands. By late afternoon, we had passed the islands, hidden by the layer of cloud clinging to their barren landscapes.

The barometer had now fallen to 970 and the wind had pushed up to eight, our timing was perfect; we now had the ideal wind for Fuerteventura only eighty-miles southeast.

Throughout the night with reefed sails we navigated in front of the depression. Elvire was holding her own as we dropped into the dark pits, created by the powerful swell; the hull vibrating with the force of the aquatic bombardment that was trying to suck us in. None of us slept well as we slid diagonally across the front. The constant fear that the wind would swing to the south and drive us back to the Selvagens Islands kept us semi-awake in our bunks, ready at any given moment to react to the changes that nature sought to deal out. The next evening the wind started to die, thankfully the protective shadow of the Canaries had taken effect: In front of us the island of Fuerteventura was bathed in sunshine, behind us, the islands' of the dogs were holding out to the black clouds.

Elvire was now safe; the harbor of Corralejo was protecting her from the six-foot swell that was still sending twelve-foot waves crashing against the lava wall. We had been lucky that the depression had not moved any faster as the landfall may have been the lonely Selvagens Islands instead of the buzzing holiday resort where we were now sunbathing drinking our beers.

Leaving early the next morning with a light southerly, we made the short crossing to Lanzarote before following the coast north to the most northern island in the Canary island archipelago, La Graciosa. This was to be the over wintering hide out for Elvire and Ian, our now surf hungry skipper.

We arrived outside the village of Caleta de Sebo with a wind that had strengthened to six and dropped anchor to the south of the harbor. When we had secured Elvire with two anchors, Ian informed me that he was going to find the harbor master with Didou and that I should wait on board until they returned. I had plenty to sort out as I was taking my flight in two days time, so I disappeared into my cabin and started to pack. Ian and Didou returned after dark, they had been unable to locate the master in spite of looking for over 3 hours. It looked as if he had gone fishing with his friends.

The next morning, Ian and myself went again hunting the mystic master in the Zodiac. After drinking a coffee at the local cafe we waited outside his closed office before we came to the conclusion that he'd gone fishing again so we would have to choose our own mooring.

We had already noticed a free spot on the quay, so using the inflatable we did a trial run checking below the water for hidden traps. Not to our surprise, below the surface was a pit of old ropes that gave only one doorway open to us, so with this information Ian headed back to collect Elvire and Didou, leaving to me to count the seabirds.

A force-eight wind was now driving through the village turning it into a classic western sandstorm. Pieces of desert bush were rolling down the deserted village. It was a recipe for disaster as the fishing boats had now pulled tighter on their static lines, closing off the only passage to the quay. From the sea wall I felt useless as I watched Elvire turning into the harbor, we had made it this far with out a scratch and in the last hour of our journey things seemed to be getting out of hand.
 
Quick thinking from Didou saved our pride when he jumped into the Zodiac, accelerated across the harbor in front of Elvire and started to push the moored boats apart using the soft hull of the inflatable. The power from the outboard making the openings, as Elvire slotted through the rapidly closing gaps; the rope-infested water had given us one chance.
 
We were at last home. Now ready for your yacht charters in the Canaries!

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