Sail-World's Blackwattle Sailing for Tunisia

by Nancy Knudsen on 22 Aug 2006 OFF TO A BLUE LAGOON? - NO WE’RE NOT!

As we leave the proud citadels and fortified walls of Malta behind, we are keen for a night or two of R&R, before our main task of heading ever westward towards the Atlantic. In Malta workmen doing interminable boat repairs have trampled us down and the yacht is dirty from Malta’s dusty smoky atmosphere as well as the trampling. We have had several recommendations of wonderful anchorages nearby, and something called the ‘Blue Lagoon’ sounds very enticing – a couple of hours away – just the ticket.

The wind is light but the seas angry from gales in the Adriatic as Blackwattle swirls and staggers her way to the next Maltese Island of Comino. She rocks violently from gunnel to gunnel with each confused wave, and we seesaw our way, bracing for every move. However, it’s a wonderfully sunny day and we can’t wait to get to the promised tranquil anchorage.

HmpHHH! On rounding a low rocky point, we are met with a small bay in a bland setting. Maybe that’s okay, but there are 324,000 boats already in the anchorage. In between the anchored yachts there are windsurfers, waterskiers and speedboats as well as anchored tourist boats with spillings of people in the water and loud dance music playing.

‘How does Tunisia sound?’
‘Splendid.’
‘Aye aye, then Tunisia it is!’

We pull away happily and head westwards with the wind on our quarter, rocking our way out into the empty ocean and towards the African continent, and our destination a couple of nights away - Monastir in Tunisia!


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OFF TO TUNISIA? - NO WE’RE NOT!

It’s 10.00pm and I am finishing my three-hour night watch, but there’s a growing worry in the back of my mind…

But no it can’t be happening… It couldn’t be… My head is dizzy… we’ve been sailing for six weeks, it’s not possible!

But possible it is, and I spend the next three hours bottom up and head down over the side, wishing to goodness that I’d had more judgement and had stayed sensibly at home in our little waterfront flat in Sydney, which was a perfectly reasonable and nice place to be, instead of being out here in this wilderness of miserable water, on this stupid boat, heaving my socks off over the side, AND on the other side of the world from home.

In the end, after managing to keep down some seasick pills I collapse in a foetal position on top of some salty ropes in a small corner of the boat and fall into an exhausted slumber.

Ted stays on watch, of course, what else can he do?

I wake fleetingly, and mutter ‘Lampedusa’
‘What?’ says Ted.
‘Lampedusa’

This is not some strange magic charm, or a curse on all things nautical, but the name of a remote island half way to Tunisia. Why keep going? We’ll be there in a few hours, and can recover some much-needed sleep.

Ted changes course slightly, and we head for Lampedusa.

…………………………………..

A few hours later, I am blearily on watch again, when I hear, ‘Mayday, Mayday, Mayday!’
This is enough to snap the seediest sailor to attention. It’s also extraordinary, because this is the second Mayday that I have heard in the six weeks we have been sailing, the first having been a yacht called Willie Waw in the Greek Islands.

Again, ‘Mayday, mayday, mayday!’ The voice is male, elderly, and heavily accented, no European accent I can identify.
‘All ships, all ships, all ships!’ Now he is speaking slowly and precisely, as though he has only one chance to get the message out. ‘We are taking water and we are about to sink. Our position is:…’ and he gives his latitude and longitude. I rush to copy it down on a scrap of paper, using the light I can get from the instruments on deck.
He’s continuing: ‘Any ship close by, mayday, mayday, mayday! Malta Radio, Malta Radio, Malta Radio!’ Now the transmission cuts of abruptly.

I check our position against his. He is sixty miles to the south of us, and about twenty to the east. At least 70 miles away, more maybe. Flat out that would take us twelve hours. I relax, a little guiltily, thinking that there’s no way we could get there – there must be other closer vessels.

Surprisingly, I hear nothing more. However, his last call stays with me as very curious. Why ‘Malta Radio, Malta Radio, Malta Radio!’?

VHF reception at sea – which is theoretically line of sight only - is always a little surprising – sometimes one can hear clearly a long way for a short time, then not. I put the lack of further messages down to the vagaries of transmission.

At least now I am properly awake, and identifying with the unknown sailors, who are without doubt experiencing any cruiser’s worst nightmare.

………………………………………………………..

Lampedusa arrives about the same time as the sun bursts through the morning cloud, and is just as pleasing. The violent rocking of the boat ceases as we sail into the lee of the island, which is low and arid, the rocks a pale golden colour. It’s a large commercial bay, with several inlets – one for the fishermen, one for the ferries and commercial shipping, and one – ours – spare for visiting yachts. It has high rocky shores shining in the early slanted sunlight. There’s a sandy beach at the end, sprinkled with umbrellas, and skirted by hotels and restaurants. Sleepy hotel staff are out sweeping the beach, and there’s a couple of early morning swimmers doing their paces in the water.

Lampedusa, we already know, is Italy’s answer to the refugee problem. We have read that there are up to 18,000 mostly African asylum seekers who have been relegated to incarceration on this island after attempting to get to Italy. Apparently desperate, they pay people smugglers large sums of money to get them from the shores of Africa to Italy. The figures are impossible to verify, but it has been estimated by academics working in the field that about two of every ten of these boats never make it, the refugees being either drowned at sea or collected by passing fishermen or coastguards. When they are caught, either on shore in Italy or at sea, they are brought to Lampedusa, and the conditions are described as ‘appalling’, whatever that rather subjective term might mean.

However, as the island wakes, there’s no clue to this in the scene that is presented to us. The hotels here are obviously thriving; the beaches and the clear waters are soon teeming with holidaymakers out to get a holiday tan. Kids run in the bright sunshine, people play ball in the water. We have put our anchor down in 6 metres of water, and saw it clearly as it bit into the soft sand below. Last one in is a rotten egg!, and soon we’re lolling too in the buoyant salty water, and last night’s incidents faded from memory.

……………………………………..

It’s a few hours later…..
‘Nance, Nance! Look quick, here’s the answer to your mystery!’
‘Who? What? Where? What are you talking about?’
‘Look, look, quickly, the Coastguard!’
I struggle from my reclined position, reading a book and snoozing.
The sight in front of me is certainly strange, and it takes a minute for Ted’s meaning to be clear. A Coastguard boat is making its way past our anchorage, into the main commercial harbour, and on board, where you would expect to see several crewmen only, the stern is packed tightly with ebony black individuals in colourful clothes, legs dangling in rows as though they were in a yacht race.

Of course, of course, the Mayday. Last night’s Mayday! But now I wonder – was it real? Or was the Mayday planned? Were they hoping that Malta Coastguard would collect them, not the coast guard of Lampedusa?

Later in the morning, two more coastguard vessels arrive, one of them much larger, both s