Culatra

Last year, I learned a lesson about how not to start the season. The wind served as a convenient scapegoat.

Jocelyn and I flew to Sweden in mid-June, and in a whirlwind half-week provisioned the boat, closed out winter storage affairs, and “competed” in a regatta put on by Hallberg-Rassy. With the exception of the rude send-off we received from our winter guardians, all was quite enjoyable. But coupled with the exertions required to break free from Colorado routines and the lack of time to adjust to a new time zone, we ended up fairly exhausted before we had even begun.

To make matters worse, I pushed us pretty hard upon finally leaving Ellos. The forecast called for the wind to go our way for a few days but then turn against us. We had learned our lesson about fighting the wind early on, and so we agreed to make as much progress as possible while the wind was headed in the right direction. Several long days under sail ensued as we covered the 300 miles to Tananger, Norway.

We succeeded in avoiding the turn in the wind and arrived in plenty of time for our North Sea Crossing. But the penalty for this result was severe. By jumping straight into “moving the boat” mode, we had compounded our exhaustion. Though we had several days to recover in a peaceful setting before moving the boat once more, the strain on Jocelyn was evident.

While I could rationalize that the wind had forced my decisions, I knew that the circumstances were largely of my own making. I vowed not to repeat this mistake. With the benefit of hindsight, I would design the start to the next season differently. My motives were not entirely altruistic, of course, as the adage “Happy Wife, Happy Life” comes to mind and having a less-stressed first mate would surely improve shipboard conditions.

So the kick-off to the 2012 season had a very different feel for Jocelyn. First, her captain, aided by an able crew, had moved the boat from the cold damp north to the sunny warm south in anticipation of her arrival. Second, she had been greeted at the airport by two strong companions who escorted her on her reintroduction to Europe. And now, she was about to enjoy a fast train to the Algarve and several languid days on the empty beaches of Culatra.

The Ilha da Culatra is a narrow spit of sand dunes forming a protective barrier between the open Atlantic and the cities of Faro and Olhão. Together, these cities form the largest population center on Portugal’s southern coast and the third largest in the country after Lisbon and Porto. And while Olhão offered us a convenient shopping distraction, we did not come here to see the cities. It was the beaches and the solitude we were after.

We arrived as the sun was setting after a leisurely three-hour sail from Albufeira, the wind behind us all the way. We penetrated the barrier islands at a breakwater marked by a tall white lighthouse. Following the channel markers east like bread crumbs, we glided past tidal flats dimly visible to the north, shallows lurking on the south channel edge. A mile further on, we spied the telltale cluster of anchor lights guiding the final path to the anchorage. We set the hook and slept.

The dawn arrived bright and clear. After breakfast, we launched the dinghy for a reconnaissance foray onto the island.

A visit to Culatra is like a step back in time. Relatively undiscovered, and with no regular ferry service, the island and its inhabitants have been left unmolested by the outside world. Though the hustle of the city is less than three miles away as the crow flies, the difference between the two is like night and day. In the city, the streets are filled with cars and trucks. On Culatra, a labyrinth of cement sidewalks and wooden boardwalks conducts only one type of traffic – pedestrian. Instead of trucks, trains, and planes to carry goods, the few shops on Culatra receive deliveries from a cart drawn by the island’s only tractor, which has very large wheels to avoid sinking in the sand. On our visit there, the inhabitants of Olhão moved as fast as any we had seen in Portugal. On Culatra, the people moved slowly, their interactions revealing small town familiarity, tinged by the slightly demented demeanor often displayed by islanders, perhaps attributable to their voluntary isolation and limited gene pool.

Ours was among a dozen or so cruising sailboats anchored just outside the island’s small, shallow harbor. Inside, at least a hundred small fishing boats were crammed against the breakwater, pier, and docks. Nets and traps in various states of disrepair littered the sand bank of the harbor. We watched as the small boats came and went, the tide providing a metronome for the day’s work. They spread across miles and miles of tidal flats revealed across the channel as the waters receded. As the tide rose, the boats returned to the village with the day’s harvest of shellfish and sardines.

We were happy to adjust to the tidal pace of Culatra. We quickly discovered the boardwalk leading from the village across a half-mile of dunes to the open ocean. Here, miles of totally undeveloped beach lay waiting for us. Only a few other sunbathers, swimsuits optional for some, dotted the beach. For three days, we worked hard on doing nothing other than reading books and starting tans.

With this treatment, Jocelyn’s season got off on the right foot.