on very slow days, and the tyranny of no wind at all
Porto CristoTwenty 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.
