A year ago I was also on a catamaran—out at sea, within sight of where this catamaran is now moored in the Kalamata Marina. I agreed to spend some weeks aboard on the island of Crete, taking care of this boat while the Captain returned to Norway to finish some work. When he called to say that when crossing from Malta, the weather was more favourable to turn northward and make landfall in the Peloponnese, I considered reneging on our current agreement.
Why? You may associate Kalamata with the juicy black olives, I associated it with that day a year ago.
We were nearing the end of a long voyage delivering a brand new Bali 4.4 catamaran from La Rochelle on the Atlantic coast of France to Athens. It was to be used for charter in Greece. Three crew and the Captain, three weeks on board, slow going. Very. Slow. Going. By his own admission, the Captain had signed a bad contract which took all expenses—food, water, and fuel—out of his fee. He was a champion racing sailor but had never done a professional delivery. And never sailed in the Mediterranean. He didn’t think to do any research about the tendency of the winds here. Also, he was getting his weather updates from a buddy of his in the Canary Islands.
The Captain was pushing our fuel and water supplies to uncomfortable limits—which, in turn, made me and the other crew uncomfortable—uncertain whether we would make it. Most of the time we got no benefit from the sails, and were forced to motor. We used only one engine and were moving at a snail’s pace in order to conserve fuel.
Arriving in Athens with a completely Empty Tank and alarms beeping.
In the Ionian Sea, with only 350NM left of our 2,450NM journey, Captain recalculated and realised if we upped our speed, we would save fuel by arriving some days earlier. All of a sudden, both engines were on and we were speeding.
Now that we knew we would have enough fuel and water and food, we relaxed. I surprised myself by feeling sad that it was now almost over. Also, as we approached Greek waters, and were deeper into June, it was finally hot. Our journey had begun with my sleeping in everything I owned, including merino wool under-clothes, a beanie, a buff, and sleeping bag.
So when I went up to the helm for my morning watch on 14 June wearing only a bikini, looking around from the flybridge at utterly smooth waters reflecting the sunrise, and dolphins playing in our wake, I understood that I was in paradise.
The radio then crackled to life.
There had been a Mayday call at 2:06am. A boat was sinking.
A Mayday call usually announces how many ‘souls’ are on board. This one did not. It caused the captain to assume it was a boat of migrants and perhaps they were unsure how many people were aboard. We imagined seven, eight, twelve, maybe fifteen people. One never wants to hear a mayday call. If you do, the code of the sea is that you go to assist. We would not have had enough fuel. (Later, another crew member, K— commented on how the Captain’s incompetence and miserliness not only put us in danger, but also prevented us from being able to save lives.) Also, he reasoned, we were at least eight hours from the vessel in distress. K— was also calmed when the Greek Coast Guard started calling on specific ships which were closer to go to assist.
We kept our heading towards Athens. We would arrive in the next day or so, in time for the luxury 44ft catamaran—with a double fridge-freezer that even made ice (cubed and crushed), in which we each had our own en-suite cabins—to be used for the summer charter season. People would hire the boat to choose to be on the sea for their annual vacations.
The rescue operation, eight hours later, was still going on. I heard a boat announcing they were going to the mayday coordinates. 47NM southwest of Pylos. 35NM from us.
Below deck, I made myself breakfast with the abundance of food we now had; collected from the countries in which we’d stopped: France, Spain, Portugal, Italy. We stopped in A Coruña and Cascais for just a few hours each, to recover from sea-sickness, an engine-check, and provisioning. We only overnighted in Sardinia because we arrived after the fuel dock had closed. Other than that, we had been 22 days at sea.
In the galley, I heard the radio come to life again: “On my starboard side, there is one living person. Survivor.”
Although I finally began to make out land to our north—the Peloponnese Region of Greece—we were still too far away to pick up any reception. So, besides what we heard on the VHF radio, we had no more details of what was going on.
I fixed a bowl of fresh spinach, avocado, buffalo mozzarella, smoked salmon, drizzled it with olive oil and balsamic glaze.
Back on deck, in my bikini in the sun, eating my most decadent of breakfasts, the radio updated:
“The helicopter is here already. I am turning to pick up them. I am turning to pick up them (sic). Can you be in touch with the helicopters?” He had a strong Mediterranean accent, his voice dropped as he continued, “I see one living. One dead.
“I was ready to pick up the dead person. But already drowned. Already gone under.”
The same sea that holds me
Holds them too
And then is that not
We?
-
Only when we approached land the following day and came into reception, did we see the extent of the tragedy. Reading the story left us gutted.
100 survived. 78 dead bodies were recovered—of what they think were about 700 souls on board. The women and children were below deck and went down with the ship.
May all their memories be a blessing.
Aerial photo of the migrant boat taken by HCG (from Wikipedia).
The rescued and the dead were brought to Kalamata.
Serendipity has brought me to this very shore one year later. This weekend, I attended an event marking the year since the tragedy just hundreds of metres from the hangar to where the survivors were brought.
Three weeks at sea can be perceived as both nightmarish and paradisiacal depending on point of view, or depending on the day.
I was not risking everything I knew and everything I had for the hope of a better life. Despite its challenges, for me, for now, the better life is on the sea. A life at sea is a life I have the privilege to choose. This is my refuge.
When I received notification of your first substack, I literally stopped in my tracks …hiking solo allows for the luxury of setting my own pace. Reading this brought memories of you sharing this tragedy in real time. Your reflection has me in tears on top of our Table Mountain sandstone…”like bones” you described these boulders. Here we are, all at sea together.
While "paradisiacal" is a real word, it really is quite a clumsy mouthful. Like trying to stuff 15 wet teabags into your cheeks, and still order a vegan frap. "Paradisical" is apparently an acceptable alternative.
Also, thanks for this article. There aren't nearly enough light hearted takes on the migrant crisis. Yours is a breath of fresh air (mind the pun).
Have you considered that in order to ensure a lasting connection to new readers, you might consider cutting down the word count? I find that punchier and less long-winded stories more easily attract the attention of those not personally acquainted with you.
In any case, enjoy the travels out there and make sure to also partake of the Kalamata olives, not just the most recent local tragedy.