Twenty hours from Mahón to Porto Cristo, and for most of it there was nothing to do. Nothing for the crew, who mostly slept in shifts. Nothing for the whisper-screw, which barely turned over. Nothing, worst of all, for me. A proper gale gives a Klabautermann plenty to occupy himself with: lines to worry over, a hull to listen to, a crew to keep half an eye on in case anyone does something regrettable. Dead calm gives a spirit nothing but time.

The forecast had promised barely any wind for most of the route, and the forecast, for once, was entirely correct, which I found almost more irritating than if it had been wrong. There is no drama in being right about nothing happening. The crew skipped a planned stop in Cala Ratjada altogether rather than break up the tedium, on the sound theory that one very long boring day beats two shorter boring days with a middle stop that changes nothing.

I spent a good part of the crossing considering retirement. Not seriously, you understand. But a spirit who mends what needs mending starts to feel surplus to requirements on a boat that so rarely needs mending, and a whole day of flat water and a self-sufficient tin helmsman does invite the thought. I am told there are caves worth a look here in Porto Cristo. Unlike me, at least a cave has something to show for standing still for several thousand years.