Entering Greek Waters

Crossing to Symi

Today we left Sailor's Paradise (Kocabahce Buku), Turkey and headed out into the very blustery channel headed for Symi. Sticking precisely to courtesy flag and Q flag etiquette seemed wise especially since we heard the coastguard warn a vessel off earlier.

You are entering Hellenic waters

Our new vocabulary:

teşekkürler = efharistó

lütfen = parakaló

merhaba = giásas

günaydın = kaliméra

İyi akşamlar = kalispéra

evet = ne

hayır = óhi

tamam = entáxei

Symi Harbour

Marmaris to Sailor's Paradise

Today, May 23rd,  is the start of our Mediterranean Grand Tour, 2016 (catchy title yet to be thought up). For the next several months, until the end of the summer,  Rocko One will be our home and we have spent the past while preparing her as best as we can for this journey. One that will take us from Marmaris to the Corinth Canal via the Cyclades islands, then on to the Ionian, Montenegro, Croatia, Venice and then down to Sicily and Malta. Some of our yachtie friends think we are mad to go to Venice; it is busy, shallow, expensive and Italian - but it is our 30th anniversary this year and it has to be. Whether we manage all the stops we plan is a moot point. You can always check back at the end of the year.

Familiar view of the Gulets along the town quay

Last minute provisions

Catherine arrived late last night from Zurich and was keen to get away from the marina straight away. So swapping her violin for sailing gloves, we  set off from Netsel Marina, Rocko's home for the past two years, and head for Ciftlik; it is only a short sail but the promise of good company and delicious fresh fish being the main reasons. Our comrades in arms, Kate and Davey, welcome us on the pontoon in this idyllic setting and we catch up over a few cold beers before enjoying a languid afternoon. The water is so pristine and inviting here that it seems to beckon to kindles - but more of lost gadgets another day. At dinner we meet Kim and Colm and the Irish contingent is complete, South and North, for a great meal at Deniz's restaurant.

The familiar view from Deniz's Restaurant

On Tuesday we sailed in a brisk wind down the peninsular to Bozukale, one of our favourite places along this coast where we moor up at Ali Baba's restaurant. Situated under an ancient Byzantine citadel (Bozukale = broken castle) this is a rustic oasis perched above pristine water which draws the hardy early-season swimmers (primarily Swiss) into its refreshing clutches.  The meal was particularly good this evening and despite what lies ahead we feel a bitter sweet moment leaving this special place.

Bozukale

 Our next stop is Bozburun, scene of mostly fond memories, but a few hair-raising ones too. Some bad parking by me a couple of years ago delayed our enjoyment of this quaint place as I continued to find spurious excuses as to why we should give it a miss. Finally I succumbed to sensible pressure and we discovered the delights of charming surroundings, great meals and, of course, the famous barber. Visiting the latter is a fixed ritual and Davey and I saved up a few days stubble in order to get our money's worth.  It pays to be polite to Turkish barbers given the speed and deftness of their cut throat razor skills. It is always a rewarding experience even if it is just relief at the lack of blood-letting.

Rocko 2nd from left in Bozburun

On Thursday we prepare the formalities for leaving Turkey and engage an eccentric agent, who rides around the harbour on his company tricycle, ponytail waving in the breeze. His modest fee and efficiency see us all set to leave after the customs and police are satisfied we are who we say we are. In the mid mid afternoon we sail out of Bozburun into a howling North Westerly - supposedly on our way to Symi, but unofficially we turn right and visit Sailor's Paradise to enjoy a last evening in Turkey. The wind really comes up and mooring at Sailor's ends up being less than pretty. Once again the food lives up to expectations and after dinner I am treated to a cake and Happy Birthday played by the owner on his clarinet. The tears in my eyes were not for sentimental reasons... promise.

Sailor's Paradise looking north

A walk in Paradise

New Standing Rigging

... lots of toggles and bottle screws made for a reassuringly expensive bill

Replacing our standing rigging has been a long overdue project, with the mast having had a ridiculous pre-bend, it was clearly something we couldn't leave for our 2016 adventure. Aside from the potential safety issues the mainsail was just not happy and a one-man hoist, or a one-lady hoist to be more precise, was getting too difficult. Any yachtie in and around Marmaris will tell you that when it comes to rigging Mustafa and M² are the only people to speak to. As soon as Mustafa's guys arrive you get a sense of confidence, which is probably just as well as this is an expensive hobby. After the initial cajoling and treatment with the heat gun, the bottle screws eventually came loose and everything was slackened off to allow the mast to right itself. A few loud noises over night signalled its return to normality and two days later it was miraculously straight as a die. A new forestay some shrouds and lots of bottle screws and toggles made for a reassuringly expensive bill.

Only the Spinnaker Halyard to hold	All loose
Heat Gun and elbow grease	No tea break here

The only time you want to experience the sight of a missing forestay is in the marina while a new one is being made up.

22 Fathom Cove

"I sat opposite Recep, his makeshift table stacked high with freshly baked bread on his left, an old ice-cream tub full of Lira on his right and, slightly menacingly, his shotgun lying casually between us"

Entering 22 Fathom cove we head toward the houseboat cum restaurant “Amigos” in the north east corner.  Master of this dominion is Recep. He is a craggy-faced polyvalent with a commanding and unforgettable presence. Our first encounter with him, a few years ago, was as we came in to moor, bows to, and he instructing us exactly how he wanted things done. “Zees line zat side, an zat line zees side. No, no! Zat line Zees side” he insisted gruffly as we tied up to his makeshift pontoon.  Minutes later he reappears, note pad and pencil at the ready to take our dinner order.  As is customary, we are addressed by our boat’s name, or Kaptan if he thinks you're worthy. With no written menu he rattles off the choices and taking a minute to adapt to his accent we realise his offering of Vile Baw Kazroll is actually Wild Boar Casserole, which we choose. He then explains, with eloquent gestures and impatient English, how he shot the boar in the hills above the cove earlier that day. Each time we go there we get the identical story and we order the same dish - obviously.

As the afternoon and evening unfolds we get to hear more about Recep, his long-suffering wife and family. Some of it is probably apocryphal, but entirely believable.  His previous restaurant venture was in a bay know variously as Manastir or Tomb bay but, for the purposes of this story, its other name, Cleopatra’s bay is more fitting. It turns out that his business and the building in particular did not have the requisite paperwork and the authorities flattened it. Apparently Recep spent some time on the run and being incarcerated before he established Amigos.  This time he circumvented the need for building permission by keeping everything on his houseboat and only setting out plastic tables and chairs on the shore in the evening as temporary fixtures for the meal.  The authorities have left him alone since and will hopefully continue to do so.

The languid afternoons in 22 Fathoms are spent in and out of the crystal clear water interspersed with cold Angora white or Mojitos depending on the availability of ice.  This all against a backdrop of charcoal and bread aromas, which drift towards us from Recep's wife's homemade oven.

As the sun sets we make our way to the dining area on the shore and, surrounded by pine trees cicadas and the occasional mosquito, we enjoy a feast of mezze, wild boar and Angora wine.  As things wind down Davey gets his guitar out and entertains with the classics, audience participation more or less enhanced by the level of Angora or Efes.

In the morning the ritual is to enter “Amigos” to settle up, reminding who you are by announcing your boat name.  I sit opposite Recep, his makeshift table stacked high with freshly baked bread on his left, an old ice-cream tub full of Lira on his right and, slightly menacingly, his shotgun lying casually between us. His dog-eared note pad is at the ready with our details and his demeanour transforms from bumbling to accountant-like as he expertly and quickly jots down prices, confirms the copious number of drinks we consumed, and tallies it all up.  He proffers a loaf of bread as compensation for having to charge me so much, which I gratefully accept and, business done, we attempt to engage in some small talk.