A Fouled Propeller, a Dastardly Dutchman and a Chain

I was moored in Chichester Marina, England when I decided to sell my twenty-six foot Westerly Centaur. After a year of living aboard, it felt like she was shrinking around me—I needed something a trifle roomier.

She was in tip-top shape and sold quickly. The new owner, Steve, wanted the boat as a home- away-from-home on the south coast of Portugal but had done little ocean sailing. So he hired me to get her down there. It was mid-October when the two of us set off—not the best time to be sailing these waters as the weather tended to be a little unsettled.

Whenever we encountered contrary winds during our passage along the South Coast of England, we would put in to the closest harbour. Once on dry land, we’d seek out pubs that brewed their own ales. Some marvellous examples of the brewer’s art were quaffed. As might be imagined, it took far less than a gale to send us heading for refuge.

Just east of Plymouth, on a bright sunny day, the wind died to a whisper. We proceeded under power until, with a horrible screeching, wrenching sound, the engine stalled. A glance aft showed a thick piece of yellow rope trailing astern.

Donning a mask and fins I reluctantly plunged over the side into the icy water. Despite my wearing of a wetsuit, it was an unpleasant dip—made even more so by the fact that the rope had fused itself so tightly around the propeller-shaft that my knife proved absolutely useless. I swapped it for a hacksaw and managed—after about four dives—to free the propeller.

Ahhh, thinks I, clambering back aboard—takes more than a piece of rope to stop us intrepid mariners. But I was wrong. When I tried to restart the engine, horrible noises issued forth from its compartment. The engine rested on rubber mounts, two of which had torn loose. The shaft coupling was also broken.

During the afternoon, the whisper of a breeze arrived—just enough to ghost us into Plymouth’s outer harbour with the help of an incoming tide. We were within spitting distance of the yacht basin, savouring the imagined taste of the ales in town when the wind died and the wretched tide turned. Slowly at first, but with gathering speed, we were carried back out to sea.

Throughout our watches during that frosty night, Steve and I were able to observe the warm glow of lights on shore and envision happy people sitting in front of crackling fires in cozy pubs downing pints of delicious ales.

The next afternoon we managed to drift into port, assuage our thirsts and begin to repair the damage caused by the rope. Three days later we were on our way again.

It wasn’t until we were well past Lisbon, Portugal with darkness closing in that the barometer began its plunge. I thought of turning around and heading back to Lisbon, but I have this thing about losing ground. I sent out a radio message to any ships in the vicinity and a Dutchman responded. “No storms in the area,” he assured me. Well, thought yours truly, the Dutch are fine mariners so all must be well.

But it wasn’t. Perhaps he’d discovered that his wife had enjoyed a fling with an Australian during one of his voyages and I became the scapegoat. The bastard was probably laughing into his Schnapps or Geneva or whatever he was drinking as the barometer continued its plunge.

The wind came howling in from the north, bringing with it a lashing rain. We were making good time with just the small headsail hoisted, but it was a miserable ride with waves breaking over the stern and sloshing into the cockpit.

A little before dawn, the wind backed to the south-west but by this time we were south of Cabo de São Vicente—the south-west corner of Portugal—so were able to push on toward our destination of Vilamoura.

Cabo de São Vicente and Ponta de Sagres—which is situated a couple of miles to the south east of Cabo—tower almost vertically to heights of over two hundred feet. Huge, confused waves generated by the storm were building upon each other and battering against these fortress-like walls, sending clouds of spray over their tops.

We’d hoisted a reefed mainsail by this time and were trying to claw our way south, away from those towering chunks of rock. But as if in league with the cliffs, the wind continued backing south, pushing us toward them. Once we’d squeaked by Ponta de Sagres though, we had sea room as the land begins to curve inward.

Paul sitting on top of the lighthouse 

By the time we were approaching Marina Vilamoura, the wind had eased considerably and the sea was beginning to smooth out. The entrance to the marina is through two stone breakwaters that face roughly south. As we approached the shore, the sea-bed began to shelve and the waves started building again. I started the engine, lined us up with the port entrance and began to ride the waves in.

But I had an uncomfortable feeling—something more than just surfing a twenty-six foot boat through a rocky entrance, because I had Steve go forward to keep a lookout. We were well inside the two breakwaters, surfing on a wave when he turned to me and yelled, “There’s a chain across the entrance.” I jammed the tiller hard over and gave the engine full throttle. Steve came bounding back to the cockpit and flattened the headsail.

Almost on the beach

If one of the incoming waves caught the bow, the boat would have ended its days on the rocks of the breakwater—but the Gods were merciful and gave us a little calm patch until we were outside the entrance. Then three big waves came rolling in and almost put us on the beach. Somehow we managed to claw our way back into deep water and re-set our course for Cadiz, Spain—a harbour with an easy entrance.

Arriving back in Vilamoura a few days later, the Port Captain denied that there’d ever been a chain across the entrance. But I later ran into Paul, a friend who’d been perched atop one of the lighthouses at the end of the east breakwater and had watched our entire performance. Yes, he told me—there had been a chain.

Why it had been put there I have no idea.

Maybe the Dutchman got it right - Davina