Hermy makes it to Pisa

A wise old sailor once told me that a sailor's biggest problem is any deadline they have to meet. Now being retired, deadlines generally don't apply, although there may be a couple of bosses who may argue that they didn't really apply when I was working.

Early on in the season we arranged to meet children and Pisa seemed like a very comfortable prediction, so flights were booked. 

Reasonable, that is, until you have to wait for deliveries and get a hole fixed in the boat. Now the pressure was on.

So seeing pretty places versus getting there.

And Italy has its fair share of pretty places. We left Genoa after a whirlwind, hot, and noisy stay and made our way to Portofino, or rather an anchorage near there. The swimming was good and the evening stay not too bad although a little wallowy. 

Interestingly, we did consider a stop near there called San Fruttuoso where apparently a very grateful Richard the Lion Heart washed up following leaving Genoa for a Crusade only to hit bad weather. (I bet he didn't have to make a self referral to the Independant Husbands Complaints Commission.)  He was so grateful in fact that he decided to adopt whichever Saint was adopted here. Thus where we Brits picked up St George as a patron Saint so the story goes. 

Mrs K didn't sleep too well and after a fairly long dinghy ride into St Margharita for a bit of a shop I could tell there was a little weariness. 

Still no problem next stop is a pretty little village along the beautiful Cinque Terre coast called Vernazza. Again not a marina but it has mooring bouys so it must be a settled little spot!

And what a pretty little place with an Andrea Doria watch tower from 15 something. You use to only be able to reach these villages by boat up until more recently.

Hermy at the mooring with her Tender. Now we had a lovely trip ashore using the rather expensive trot boat with the customary, old Italian in Speedos, helmsman. but we were happy to pay as fatigue overcame putting the engine on the tender. 

The view looked perfect but our return to the boat revealed a choppyness that was slightly unsettling. " I am sure it will die down dear." I must stop saying this. It didn't. It got worse and we spent the whole night listening to everything in the cupboards crashing about as Hermy met large waves sideways on. Sleep was impossible. I was glad I had checked all the rigging after our Genoa blow as this seemed to be more stressful on Hermy then that. 

I placed Mrs K in various berths promising they would be better and tried setting a small area of sail to make us point towards the waves trying to reduce the motion. I even tried to use a bucket as a drogue, all to no avail. We were bashed about all bloody night.

06:30 No change. Couldn't even make a, wife placating, cup of tea. So we left. As soon as we were 200 yards away all settled down. Mr Heikell reckoned it was the shape of the cliffs which strangely let me off the hook and we sped towards Carrara, the Marble capital of the world.

A nice (cheap) sort of yacht club type of marina where we stayed for a couple of nights to recoup.

Now I always impress on young sailors the importance of fitness while sailing and I hone my body to perfection using such activities as cycling.

As here!

Travelling abroad you try to assess the nature of the people probably as they try to assess you. The Italians are not the same as the French. The image of the stylish Italian male with posh labelled clothes and possessions with Armani written all over them seems fine up until the age of about forty.

Then they discard these possessions and don a pair of speedos to accentuate their succumbing to the effects of pasta, ice cream and pizza.

The women however are a different kettle of fish. Now I try to smile at people, particularly women just to cheer them up which works with British and French women to a degree. It may be sympathy or pity but they generally smile back. Not Italian women.

There is a stern, reproachful return. The sort of return one gets from breaking wind in fine company.

I wonder if there may be a little Italian in Mrs K? 

Our trip from Carrara to Pisa was lovely with silk like seas and a very nice lunch stop at anchor.

After a tiring and somewhat hurried trip along the Italian Riviera we had achieved our deadline. 

Mrs K had endured much more than expected and could peacefully await the arrival of offspring bringing life saving supplies from Blighty. Dairy Milk Chocolate.

We entered the River Arno to stay at a small marina called Marina Nova and after some searching we found it and were squeezed in for a settled stay for a few days.