Bye-bye Greece x (Preveza - Italy)

 

Well our last day in Greece has finally rolled round. There’s pages and pages I could write about how good it’s been - oh wait: I’ve done that already!

This morning we are braving the dreaded check out process. Dreaded, because regardless of what has been agreed or written post-Brexit, the reality is that it’s up to the official on the day as to how easy or difficult this process is going to be.

First stop - Customs: this cleverly hidden building, not marked on local maps, is tucked around the back of a dusty lorry park, and guarded by the three mangy local dogs with whom we’ve made tail wagging acquaintance over the last week. With growing trepidation we reach the door - it’s locked. Oh dear, fallen at the first hurdle. Thankfully before panic sets in, a man opens it a crack and asked us our business. We’re told to wait while he goes to get his supervisor. She in turn informed us that we didn’t need to show our papers there at Customs, and we should head to the police station.

We then traipsed over to the Port Police, who did want to see our papers, but were bemused as to why we’d turned up there. They rang the lady at Customs, who clarified that we should have gone to the normal police station, not the port police. Taking directions for the out of town police station we once again headed off - Chez now regretting her decision to wear thongs this morning (flip flops if you’re confused by that last sentence). After a long hot stroll, we arrived at the police station, explained 3 times to bemused looking officers why we were there, and were eventually directed to ‘First Floor Security Police’.

Walking past grim uninviting empty lock up cells, we were directed to sit down outside the end office in a bare grey corridor - bare except for an incongruous framed print of two English Setters hanging on the wall opposite us. A tall gruff man greeted us with ‘Tell me!’

We explained the situation: ‘We want to leave and go to Italy’

‘OK - passports. You wait’

This was followed by a ten minute shouted phone conversation in Greek to I don’t know who, that ended with him returning smiling.

‘I don’t stamp your passports, you are free to go’

...so the upshot of the mornings activities was that no one wanted to see our boat papers, passports, or anything else for that matter.

Happy that we at least tried to do the right thing, we headed back to the boat to make ready for departure.

Passing a fig tree on the way back, Chez remarked that, the smell of ripening figs will always be the smell of Greece for her. Mine would probably be a combination: a waft of squid cooking on a charcoal grill, a sprig of oregano, and the aniseedy tang of a splash of ouzo. (Note to self: idea for an aftershave - ‘Eau de Hellenica’)

Walking back to the boat with mixed emotions: excited definitely, a little pit of the stomach scared for the journey ahead, and we’re both sad to be leaving somewhere that has become yet another home to us over the last 3 years.

As we retraced our steps across the dusty lorry park to the dinghy, Chez commented:

‘I don’t want my last time on Greek soil to be walking across a dusty car park...’

Nor did I, and I also didn’t want to be accosted by the pushy Romanian gypsy trying to get money out of me by working a dingie protection racket to be the last person I spoke to on Greek soil.. but he was.

After one final swim in Greek waters from the back of the boat, we completed the required multitude of jobs required for departure, and finally lifted anchor and headed off!

The first afternoon was delightful - mainly sailing on a starboard tack, with perhaps an hour or so of motoring when forward motion dropped under 2 or 3 knots.

Day turned to night - we dined on Chez’s lovely pre-made chilli.

It was a mild night, full of stars. The wake we created as we cut through the water was filled with sparkling phosphorescent life - as if a magician had dragged his wand through the water as we passed. As the moon came up close to midnight we saw shooting stars, satellites and planes... planes -

That leads me on to a slight uneasy feeling I experience every now and then: you might have felt the same; You’re in a plane, flying along and out of nowhere comes the realisation that you’re in a metal tube, thousands of feet up in the air with no way out, and there’s not very much you can do about it. A wave of fear rapidly washes over you and usually, just as quickly, it goes again. I had the same feeling this evening - the realisation that even if I swam down and held my breathe for a very very long time, there’s no way I could touch the bottom here... it’s nearly mile deep.. we’re bobbing along with a mile of water underneath us...

Ho hum, best not to dwell on it.

Took turns trying to sleep during the night, both only partially successful, so both quite tired by morning.

Day two was filled, dawn to dusk, with unrelenting sun, and not much wind.

Not a lot to report....we did pass a rather lovely large turtle sunning himself on the surface. We’re completely surrounded by empty uninterrupted sea on all sides. Chez lowered the Greek courtesy flag, and raised the red white green for Italy. Didn’t catch a fish... nothing unusual there you might think, but today at least a fish big enough to make my line go taught and keep me excited for 5 minutes did take a nibble of my lure.

As the sun set, we crossed from Poseidon’s domain to Neptune’s and dined on home made spaghetti bolognese, a fitting first meal in Italian waters.

Day three followed much the same pattern as day two, hot sun, lots of sea, not much wind and no fish.

Arrived at the toe of Italy late afternoon, dropped anchor in sand to check the weather and have some proper rest before we cross the Strait of Messina over to Sicily tomorrow.

Confesssion time - I wrote the last sentence before it actually happened and in doing so missed out the following:

Our selected anchorage for the night has a nasty swell that needs the kedge anchor to be dropped out back to minimise the nauseating effect. A simple process you’d think... well it took the combined effort of both Chez and I in the water to finally attach the boats stern to the dropped anchor’s rope. Both holding one end of a rope (one attached to the kedge anchor, one attached to the boat) and swimming frantically towards each other as the swell and the weight of the boat tried to keep us apart.

Arms flailing, legs kicking; “Go on babe.. you can do it!!’

Finally, nearing exhaustion, our hands met - on another day, it might seem romantic, but just now, still both sweating from the exertion and frazzled from no decent sleep for three days it is what it is.

In addition, what we’d hoped was a simple ‘flick a switch to roaming’ for our on boat wifi has turned out not to be achievable. The upshot of that little niggle is that we’ll be crossing the Messina Strait without a weather forecast.

....that’s the second ‘Ho hum, best not to dwell on it’ for this entry!