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Any blue water sailors here? I recently got this email from Stan Mott, a friend for decades. He and his wife Ise were liveaboard yachties for a period of time. Mostly in the Med. What's the car connection here? Some of you may connect Stan to his artwork in R&T..he drew the adventures of Cyclops. He and Ise have left the sea, now live in Germany. I think Stan writes as well as he does art. And yes, cartooning is very much an art form. Anyway, to the email:



Paul,




Don't know if I mentioned our adventure in '76 crossing the Gulf de Fos, France. So I wrote it out. No, I did not submit the story to a yachting magazine. The tale does not promote yachting, and might even scare a sailor or two out there. Besides, yachting magazines don't pay money for submissions...mostly from folks who are happy enough to let everyone know about their summer on the water. So...






The Gulf de Fos




Few people know that the beautiful blue Mediterranean is the world’s second most deadly sea. The first is the Red Sea. But the Mediterranean has over millennia sent by far more seafarers down to inhabit Davy Jones Locker. This is due to the vast number of seafarers from countries lining the coastlines, and two disparate weather systems; cool to icy European along the northern coast, and hot to boiling African along the southern coast. The confluence of these extreme weather systems can whip up ferocious storms in a matter of hours; Tramontanas, Levanters, Mistrals, Gregales, Siroccos, to name a few. This means huge seas and short troughs that sink boats.




Ancient Mediterranean ships had mostly small square sails on a single foremast, and lots of oars. The sail allowed them to run with the wind in storms, and the oars to power them in dead calms. These travel aids give great insight to the two basic Mediterranean weather conditions; long periods of dead calm and flat seas interspersed by sudden killer gales.




We novice sailors, of course, didn’t know any this back in 1975. My wife, Ise, and I blithely motor-sailed our newly bought Turkish caique gaff ketch, “Deniz Agaci”, into Spanish waters. We spent a calm and sumptuous summer in the Balearic Islands. But it was September, and time to sail north to enjoy the French Riviera. We didn’t know then that the winter temperatures in Cannes gets down to freezing. And we didn’t know the French weather reports, on radio France Inter, were sometimes, let’s say, casual.




We sailed north hugging the Spanish and French coasts most of the way to avoid Tramontana winds. When we arrived near the mouth of the French Rhone River, a northeast Mistral force 8 gale was blowing. A Mistral is a wind that races down from cold mountains through the Rhone Valley like a angry river. But it was good sailing, for us, as long as we hugged the coast and engaged in no large seas.




We sheltered overnight off Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer. Next morning, France Inter announced another force 8 gale. Good. We only had to cross the Gulf de Fos, a seven mile stretch, exposed to a ten mile fetch, where seas could build. But we had great faith in our Turkish caique gaff ketch; she has a double ender hull, a Mediterranean design built for short nasty seas.




We set out early, running south with the wind. It quickly increased. By the time we reached the mouth of the Rhone, it was howling. We headed into it and sheltered behind a spit land. We couldn’t return into the wind. We looked across the gulf. A large cargo ship was steaming out to sea. We figured it can’t be too bad if they’re giving it a go. And we couldn’t stay where we were. If the anchor let go we’d be whisked out to sea in a killer storm.




We set out across the gulf. The seas built up fast, getting so huge I had to turn the bow into them, to pause, let the largest seas pass, before cranking the wheel back to head towards our destination. Within minutes, we saw the freighter heading back to land. They were flashing a light at us, indicating no doubt we should follow them to safety.




Instead, I set about cranking the wheel, getting the bow into the now monstrous seas, pitching up so violently we saw over the bow only the bright blue Mediterranean sky one second, and in the next the bow pitching down into a dark sinister green base of the following sea. I quickly learned seas run in series of nine. They build up to the biggest, then moderate back down, at which time I whipped the wheel to starboard and opened the throttle to make head way, before the next big ones built up, and I had to cut her into the wind again.




It was one of those times if one little thing went wrong, if our Ford 6E diesel quit, if a steering cable broke, if a mast broke, I wouldn’t be sitting here writing these words. We would have been carried out to sea, with little or no control over the boat as seas became mountainous. And devilishly “squared up”, i.e., short distance between high seas, waves, which sink boats quickly. (This happens when storms are whipped up quickly, with no time for seas to stretch out, as in the Atlantic or Pacific, to allow boats to more easily ride over them.) So when night fell, we’d be so far out it would be only a question of time before the wrong monster sea caught us the wrong way and rolled the boat. We would then be the latest additions to the thousands of Mediterranean sailors over millennia sent to Davy Jones Locker.




But nothing broke. With our now beloved Ford 6E diesel roaring, wind screaming, my frantic cranking the boat into monster seas, then back, and racing to make way, and back again, for an eternity (2¼ hours), we crossed the gulf.




We ran with the wind to point Carry-de-Rouet and whipped around it...into calm water. We hugged the coast to the small commercial port of Les Riaux, and anchored safely.




France Inter later reported that we had endured not a force 8 gale, but a severe force 11 storm.




I can assure you the adrenaline pumped during such genuine life and death situations does not vanish immediately. The tea we sipped while calming down was almost--dare I say it?--a psychedelic experience. We were alive. And what an incredibly beautiful once-upon-a-time experience it was.




We were more careful next time we listened to France Inter.




(Stan Mott. Copyright 2017)