Gibraltar

Lisbon and Culatra had given us time to decompress – for me, from moving the boat far and fast, and for Jocelyn, from the work world back in Colorado. And if Lisbon and Culatra were our decompression chamber, then Cadiz was our recovery room. We were slowly adjusting to our new surroundings. The closer to the Mediterranean we got, the more relaxed we became.

We were ready to enter the Med. But first, we had to run a gauntlet. That gauntlet was Gibraltar.

We knew we were in for something when we read the directions in our pilot book for transiting the Straits of Gibraltar:

“Eight miles separate Europe for Africa at its narrowest point in the Straits. The water at the western end of the 30 mile stretch is some two to three meters higher than at the eastern end, thus causing a constant surface flow into the Mediterranean. This is partially due to evaporation in the Mediterranean, which is three times faster than the rate at which the combined waters from rivers flow into it; and the fact that the Atlantic is tidal with a predominantly westerly swell, whereas the land-locked Mediterranean is virtually non-tidal. This produces a standing east-going surface current of between one and two knots. Differences in salinity between the Atlantic and the Mediterranean force the heavier water down, causing a sub-surface current in the opposite direction. Wind also creates a surface current…. Then there are the tides.… Barometric pressure differences also affect the height of water.”

What was to be made of all these cross currents? Were they simply an apt metaphor for the conflicted cultures along the Med’s shores? Or Nature’s way of making us work before play? Or perhaps a foreboding gauntlet guarding the temptations that lay beyond? For an instant, we contemplated bailing on the whole idea of entering the Med at all. Perhaps we should avoid such a tumultuous place and turn southwest now to let the reliable trade winds push us toward home.

But the instant of uncertainty passed. We reasoned we had taken on greater challenges than this and survived (e.g., Lindesnes and Staat, the North Sea, Biscay), so what was one more? We ran through the pre-start routines – study the weather, check the rig, batten the hatches  – and set off from Barbate, our last port of call on the Atlantic, knowing as all sailors do that even with the benefits of technology and the application of our best skills, we would owe our deliverance to Providence.

Just as Biscay would not let us go without one final jolt, neither did the Atlantic. The sail from Barbate was smooth as silk for the first twenty miles. Shortly after Tarifa, though, things started to get interesting.

We were already wary about Tarifa. The pilot book told us 40-knot winds are common there. The way the land juts into the sea is just right to create a wind tunnel aimed directly at unsuspecting cruisers passing close offshore. We heaved a sigh of relief as we rounded Punta Marroqui at the southern tip of the Isla De Tarifa and pointed the boat east with the wind behind us at only 12 knots. Cockily, I even contemplated adding more sail to increase speed.

Our relief was short-lived. The idea of raising the gennaker was quickly dismissed as the winds built steadily from Force 5 (17 to 21 knots) to Force 6 (22 to 27 knots) and then Force 7, a Near Gale with sustained winds above 30 knots. Briefly, we turned into the following breeze to reef our sails, keeping only a handkerchief out as we rounded into Algeciras Bay, pushed along by the inflowing current and cresting two-and-a-half meter waves.

Behind the protection of Punta Carnero, the winds quickly diminished as we crossed the bay and entered Gibraltar harbor. Inside Queensway Quay marina, a young dock hand directed us to our berth and greeted us in flawless American accented English. It was just another day in Gibraltar. Though outwardly we displayed no sign, inwardly we thanked God for our safe arrival. We had done it. We had run the gauntlet and lived to tell the tale.

Now it was time for some serious turista-ing.

Gibraltar is an oasis of Britishness in an Andalusian desert. Just when we were getting the hang of Spanish culture, Wham-O, we’re back in Britain again. While Anglophiles would sing for joy, it was quite shocking, really, to walk down Main Street and see all the familiar institutions – Vodafone, Marks & Spenser, well stocked news agents, pubs with proper English bitters, and, of course, the Union Jack flying everywhere – so very out of place in 90 degree heat under a cloudless blue sky.

Like flies to fly paper, all visitors to Gibraltar inevitably end up on Main Street. The primary pedestrian-only commercial district, Main Street serves as the hub for Gibraltar tourism. Indeed, for our visit the place crawled with tourists, mostly northern Europeans, buzzing with the sort of transient, see-everything-now mania common to tourist destinations. Pubs and cafés alternated with curio and clothing shops along the sidewalk. Occasionally, an upscale jewelry shop, perfumery, or art gallery would appear. Upscale or otherwise, no one beckoned you into these establishments, unlike other Iberian tourist zones where hawkers line the streets. Here, British decorum tacitly prohibits such insult.


Main Street

Once the sun went down, curiously, the tourists disappeared. It was as if the tourists had all boarded buses or ferries and gone back from whence they came, which they probably did. Main Street was empty, despite the attraction of the first ever Gibraltar International Jazz Festival, which ran both weekend nights while we were there. Performances were delivered from a substantial sound stage erected in the Grand Casemates Square at the north end of Main Street. The headliner on Friday night was Avishai Cohen, a bass guitar virtuoso who began his career as Chick Corea’s bassist. On Saturday, saxophonist Dan Moretti performed, supported by a world-class band. But only a smattering of people came out for it. Later, I read in the local newspaper that the town mothers and fathers spawned the festival to introduce “event tourism” as a boost to Gibraltar’s economy. From what I saw, they must have been disappointed with the outcome. But that didn’t matter to me. The music was first rate and I got to enjoy it from the front row.

Jazz Fest

Saturday again dawned bright and clear. In the cool of the morning, we headed to Gibraltar’s other tourist destination – the Rock.

If you are in Gibraltar, it’s impossible to ignore “the Rock.” It shadows the town for most of the morning, looming at its eastern perimeter. A cable car has been built to take tourists to the summit ridge 426 meters (1,398 feet) above.  Luna took a cable car; Jocelyn and I opted to walk up, having had little exercise on board Windleblo. At first, our route took us gradually up narrow winding paved roads to a viewpoint looking south across to Africa. From there, a trail contoured around until reaching a col in the Rock’s southeastern face. Here, a stairway carved into the rocks took us up, up, up until we emerged at the Rock’s highest point. Known as the Med Steps, there were 657 in all. (I counted them.)

Med Steps

Girls Atop the Rock

Summit Ridge

The town from above.

The Med Steps took us through the heart of the nature reserve that comprises the upper third of the Rock. Within it are many unique animals and plant, but perhaps best known are the Barbary Macaques – the famous Rock monkeys. Not really monkeys, these are apes thought to have escaped long ago from a shipment of North African animals to Spain. Now, they provide a signature tourist attraction, greeting arrivals at the cable car terminal and tolerating countless photographs. Signs warn of getting too close, but we watched tour guides coaxed them to sit on tourists’ shoulders for yet more photos, then rewarded them with treats, though feeding is supposedly strictly prohibited.

Gibraltar Apes

On our descent, we took in several other attractions, including the Moorish Castle, a relic of 710 years of Moorish occupation, and part of a 52-kilometer network of tunnels dug into the Rock at the outset of World War II to house British soldiers waiting to repel a German attack.

Moorish Castle

World War II Tunnels

Before we left Gibraltar, we stocked up on supplies that had been hard to find since Ireland, treats like good marmalade, strong cheddar cheese, and bitter ale. Last season, we had grown so accustomed to these items that we started to take them for granted, and I must admit it was soothing to be surrounded by our native language and familiar products. In Gibraltar, for a brief while, we didn’t have to strain to interpret the language or comprehend the culture.

But that respite was fleeting, for we were headed to Morocco, for us the most foreign land yet.