Crossing the Mediterranean during the summer, from Corsica to Greece, while hoping the sea doesn’t pitch one of its famous fits, is an experience that cannot be missed. It is best aboard a motorboat rather than a sailboat, and TPS is the perfect ship: no noise, no vibrations...
A slow passage in front of these mythical white cliffs, and thanks to the dinghy, we entered the the cave of Sdragonato; I did not dare try to fit TPS into it!
As for the town that sits on the cliff, no matter how many times you see it, it always looks just as improbable and splendid.
Instead of navigating through the main channel of the Strait of Bonifacio, we pass through the channels north of Sardinia, the steepness of which allows us to navigate right up close to the impressive cliffs.
On the Porto Cervo side, we see a parade of the most luxurious yachts in the world...
We arrive at Lipari, the main town on the island and on the eponymous archipelago. As we prepare to drop anchor in the little space available (the depth is breathtakingly steep), we see numerous, overburdened vessels detach from the coast and come towards us. I can’t help but be reminded of the Indian canoes coming to meet Captain Cook’s Resolution in a Polynesian bay. Disembarking, cannon fire, firecrackers and fireworks. What a welcome, far beyond our expectations! But no, we are surrounded, and then passed by; it turns out to be a religious celebration. The person we ask about this does not seem to remember what exactly the occasion is, since there are so many…
Under the volcano, at dawn. The valve opens regularly to release pressure but the monster is calm, and at its feet, the little town of Stromboli which mainly lives from a “VIP tourism”, seems prosperous. Still, the cracks on the walls of the church show that this area can be a bit precarious...
We encounter strange boats in the strait of Messina. Take a hull that is a dozen metres long, place the mast in the centre, a pylon that is 25 metres high, with a basket on top. Stick a walkway of about thirty metres long in front, and secure it all with a spiderweb of shrouds and stays, and now you are ready to fish swordfish. The pilot and two lookouts sit in the basket, from which commands come down to the harpooner who sits far ahead, at the end of the walkway.
Traditionally, these were rowboats. Even if powerful motors have replaced the rowing crew, it is still a very selective kind of fishing, and the harpooner chooses only good adult catches. How long will this form of fishing resist competition from fishing boats with nets, which is both intense and often illegal?
On my bunk, in the darkness of my windowless cabin.
I woke up, feeling something abnormal. For the first time since I am on board, I no longer feel any small movement, or any noise apart from the fan: no squeaking, which is an odd feeling aboard a boat, especially a carbon boat like this one, where the slightest wave that touches the central nacelle can be heard all throughout the ship. But I know that TPS is advancing, probably rather quickly...
I feel like I am on a spaceship, hurtling through space…
It is too unreal, I go outside. Outside there is only white calm, I search the horizon, a hot, downy mist blocks it out, and only the wrinkles in the water around the floats suggest that we are on a disk, and not inside a sphere.