Life on the end of a piece of string

Tonight, its 1.00 am and neither Megan nor I can sleep. We've been living at anchor this last week, and tonight, its blowing 30 knots, with lightening, thunder and the occasional rain shower.

Entrance to the lagoon at Spinalonga

You have to imagine it.... We are enclosed in a small ellipsoid shape half under the water. We are attached only at one end by a length of chain that leads to an anchor that we hope is buried in ground that has 'good holding'. We gyrate wildly around this 'anchor point', it is the still point in our current universe. It feels like life happens at the end of this particular 'piece of string', we fly like a kite anchored to our still point. I pray that our still point holds.

Our ellipsoid shape magnifies every sound, like living inside the body of a guitar. The deck is a soundboard, with lots of strings attached that vibrate with the wind, all singing a different melody. It produces a counter-point with which we have become very familiar. All of a sudden, there is a new sound. "What's that, what's that", Megan demands to know. We both list a litany of possible offenders. It could be the shrouds vibrating, or the sleeves on the shrouds tapping a shrill warble. It could be various halyards flapping against the mast.... or it could be something signifying a possible danger.

"No, I think its just the boarding ladder", I offer bravely. But that means we should really bring the boarding ladder in, its a possible hazard. Its wet, dark, rainy, windy.... interspersed with flashes of lightening brilliance, when all the boats straining at their anchors become instantly visible. It feels totally appropriate to go out into this maelstrom completely naked. It would feel like an offence to the Gods to go out clothed, as if one could be protected from the elements. So out I go, in the rain on the pitching deck to retrieve the ladder, totally naked. I find singing out loud helps!

This wind is not a constant presence. Crete is very mountainous, the wind along the southern side of the island, creates swirls of turbulence, that hurtle across mountain passes, are focussed into valleys, and come out like bowling balls over our flat lagoon. We call them bullets, and they strike you completely randomly. They can come from different directions and are often interspersed by total calm. This is worse than a constant howling wind. One's senses dull after a period of constant exposure, the sound becomes 'background'. No, bullets are ever fresh and new to the senses. Our minds try to make sense of each 'brush stoke' in this wind driven cacophony.

Now, rain comes. Driving rain that beats a new counterpoint. It seems to deaden the sound of the wind, replacing it by a more soothing white noise. Perhaps its time to stop blogging, and try sleeping again.

Living at anchor for longer periods is a new experience for us. We no longer have the comforts of marina's, like shore power, water, and easy access to the land. Its far more precarious than the municipal docks which at least offer us a hard immovable bollard to anchor our universe to. Life on the hook is totally self-sustaining. Its very reminiscent of camping, where you have to carry all your supplies and necessities for life in your own backpack. If you forget anything, well... too bad.

And everything has started to run out! Our generator failed, and we learned today that it is completely beyond repair. So our solar panels can't keep up with our power use. We try to conserve, so I've not used my CPAP machine that aids my sleeping respiration. Its a high power consumer, so I give up sleep for 2 nights to conserve electrons. However, today, the batteries were 'in the red' even with our frugal life-style. The overcast sky meant that the solar panels could only produce a few amps, insufficient to drive our fridge, the other big power consumer. So we have to run the main engine at a high idle, using the alternator to charge our batteries. Very inefficient, expensive use of diesel and not good for the engine. We've budgetted today for a new generator. (Cheap, only 6 Euro boat bucks!)

Our food ran out day's ago. After living on our stock of beans, we must brave the elements in our 2.3m tender (it seems to shrink proportionate to wind-speed). Megan has volunteered to take the bus into Agios Nikolaos to do some shopping, and buy some more bits so we can stay in contact with the Internet world. The outboard fired up and we are making tortuous progress to the distant jetty. Megan is of course drenched by the time we reach shore. Of course, it dries, but she is left with salt patterns across all her clothes. I compliment her on how 'yachtie' she looks.

Of course, our outboard is a capricious resource, and it decided to fail today. We had a diesel mechanic coming to the boat at 11.00 am, it was 10.50 am and I'd left 10 minutes to motor to the jetty to pick him up. So on cue, the motor fails to start, and I must row against 30 knot winds to pick him up. Rowing our tender is like rowing an inner tube with one small paddle. Very ineffectual. At least I got a week's exercise in one long aerobic moment.

Our water is on its last legs. Since we had to run the engine for a few hours to charge the batteries, it means that there is now hot water. Should we take the opportunity for a hot shower, or save the precious resources. We vote for the shower. Its been some days since we've had a hot one, and the luxury feels decandent. Most times, we alternate between swimming and washing off at a beach-side public shower. Haven't yet taken our shampoo to the beach shower, but its tempting.

Our capacity to store our own shit is also a limiting factor. In the past, one could never safely swim in the vicinity of yachts, there was often strange object floating around them. Now of course, we are all environmentally conscious, and only dump our black water at sea. That means that we have to store it while at anchor in this small protected bay. We fitted holding tanks to Pavlov, with all the plumbing that gave us control over our poo destiny. We however, neglected to fit any device that tells us how full the tanks are. We wonder how we will discover that particular end point. Will it be an inability to pump, or something exuding from the overflow vent? We have yet to discover the answer to that question, but live in fear of it.

So, life on the end of a piece of string. Its a metaphor for how self-reliant we have become, to live out here, tethered by a hope and a prayer. As a new bullet starts the boat singing its strangely concordant love song to the wind, we fill ourselves full of trust that our still point will hold, and our string continue to anchor us to this beautiful earth.

Our floating home.