We’re sailing north up the
Turkish coast. We’d arranged to enter Greece at Lesvos when we applied for our one-year
visa/residency permit, and Lesvos is about 250 nm north of Orhaniye. This year,
we’re determined to sail more and motor less, due to the high cost of diesel
here (about AUD $2.50 per litre). The predominating wind direction in the Aegean
is northerly, best expressed by the Meltemi, which can howl from the northeast
or northwest for days and days at a time. But in early spring, the meltemi
hasn’t kicked in yet, and there are still windows of southerly winds.
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| The marina at Turgutreis. A bit of luxury. |
That means that we have to
wait for southerly winds, but in early spring, Southerlies means storms. Oh
well, you can’t have everything, or paraphrased: ‘There’s no such thing as a
free ride’.
Our first jump was to
Kinidos, a Greek archaeological site that was a trireme harbour and town with
amphitheatre, right on the tip of the Gorkova Korfezi peninsula. That puts it
right in the racetrack of strong winds, and when we first pulled in, a worried
French couple chartering a boat were hurriedly departing. As they left, they
yelled out ‘Big winds coming in two hours’. Comforting! The only other boat in
the anchorage also disappeared but we stayed.
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| Turkish topiary |
Sometimes, you have to make
decisions that weigh up the costs and benefits, and not necessarily follow the
other sheep. We knew Kinidos was not a good anchorage, expressed by that
Heikellism: ‘Not everywhere good holding’. But we also knew that it was getting
dark and that there were no other good anchorages within striking distance. So
we set and checked the anchor well, laid 60 metres of chain and gave offerings
to the gods ROCNA and CQR.
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| Turgutreis town |
Some nights at anchor are
spookier than others. This was such a night, with a new moon and pitch-black
sky with stars strewn like jewels over black velvet. The wind was moaning, and
there were no other boats or inhabitants in the bay. It felt very alone, with
only Pavlov and ancient vanquished Greek spirits from the triremes to support
and protect us. So we shut the hatch, and during our troubled sleep, muttered
prayers to the weather gods.
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| Colourful shoes |
We had an uneventful night,
but the next day was overcast, heavy with cloud. It was also freezing, so we
climbed into our wet weather gear, and braved the rain. At this point, I fell
in love with our new autopilot, Simrad the Brave. It means that I can huddle up
next to Meagan under the protection of the dodger, which provides much more
respite from the driving rain than at the helm.
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| Turgutreis beach, not too welcoming this early in the season |
As we flew up the coast under
these threatening skies and booming southerly winds, the forecast was for more
storms and Force 6 winds. Rather than try to anchor at Gumuslek, where we’d
dragged during dinner the year before, we opted for the easy option; to pay the
King’s ransom and check into Turgetreis marina. Not much to see in Turgutreis,
the only attraction is really the marina, but we enjoyed the hot showers and
the boat security that our AUD $100 per night bought. In fact, we stayed for
two nights as the rain was pelting down the next day and the weather looked
quite unsettled.
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| The Admiral at work |
Saturday saw us headed for
Port Saint Paul. This is a very welcome little niche in an otherwise foreboding
coastline of mudflats and river deltas. An authority no less than Saint Paul
also thought so, as the point got its name from Saint Paul, who rested his
rowing crew there for a night, giving them respite from the meltemi. An apostolic
deed, indeed, and an example of the fascinating history of the place names in
this region.
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| Turgutreis street scene |
Again, we had the anchorage
all to ourselves. It was blowing Force 5 – 6 outside, but is was good to feel
sheltered in this little cove, with our Rocna buried in sand at 3m depths,
giving us a scope of 10.
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| Fjord magic! |
Today is Sunday, and we are
now motoring up the coast past Kusadasi and the Greek island of Samos to
Tekedagi. The skies are leaden with occasional rain showers, heavy cloud and
the odd shaft of sunlight. Our favourable winds have died and we are pushing
into a steepening swell. It never ceases to amaze me the multitude of moods
that water can portray. From the tranquil and delightful pools and waterfalls,
to the brooding majesty of an angry sea, the whole gamut of human feeling can
be portrayed by water.
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| The fjord at Tekedagi |
Tekedagi is a tiny fjord we
found last year. You have to sneak behind a sprawling fish farm to find the
entrance. A small alley of water winds its way back into the hills that provide
exceptional protection from wind and swell. It was such a delight to arrive, as
we’d been hammered by a confused cross-swell sweeping along the much-increased
fetch of the now open Aegean Sea.
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| Serenity encapsulated! |
It was even more spectacular
to find that the mooring balls we found here last year were still here, and had
even been replenished with new rope. The men working the fish farm build
temporary shelters along the walls of the fjord, for when they need to shelter
off their boats that are usually permanently stationed next to the farms. They
also must maintain the buoys for securing their boats during storms. It’s
really the only way to anchor in the fjord, as the depths were over 20 m in the
channel, which was only about 30m wide. Last year, we spent half a day trying
all sorts of anchoring options in the fjord which all failed dismally, until we
found these mooring balls.
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| A blessed mooring ball |
The fjord is quite special to
us. It’s one of those wilderness anchorages that never see tourists or charter
boats. There is no road into this valley, and the only souls who come here are
a few lonely fishermen working the fish farms in the gulf outside. There is a
wild sort of loneliness here, it’s as if you are sharing the space with just
the stars, the wind, the ragged and dramatic rocks and scraggly sage bush, and
maybe the occasional goat. It’s pristine beauty, and we are all alone in it.
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| The hills behind the fjord |
However, this cruising life
is also filled with co-incidences. Last year, we met up with some German
friends of ours, who also stumbled into the fjord. We shared a few wonderful days
with Petra and Marco here, and just recently learned that they are only 20
nautical miles away at Cesme. We’d had an email from them back when we had
connectivity at the marina, but imagine our surprise when our mobile phone rang
(particularly as we had no reception when we tried to dial out). It was Marco
and Petra, and now they may come to the fjord tomorrow after we described the
wonders of our mooring ball. Such are the vagaries of cruising life, we feel a
bit like ships in the night. It does give us a warm feeling, that rather than
just being alone with the wind and the stars, we might be able to share some of
this magic with warm friends!
