"Time and tide weather the Body's vessel, but it is our own choice that decides whether we set sail for adventure or lie at anchor watching life from the harbour"

Have you ever seen the 1970s TV show Monkey Magic?

Long before I was sworn to protect a catamaran from the celestial mischief of Sandy and the earthly greed of Pigsy, my first quest was in the hallowed, humid halls of my mother’s greenhouse. There, I would liberate a bamboo cane (not yet a magic staff, but a humble tomato prop) and with an elastic band round my head and a little imagination, the stick would transform in my hands. Suddenly, I was the irrepressible Monkey, and the low garden wall was a mountain peak. I’d leap, tumble in a graceless but committed roll across the lawn, and spring back to my feet, striking a karate pose so fierce it would startle the god’s watching from above. In my mind, clouds parted, and a celestial choir sang. In reality, my mother just worried about her tomatoes.

 You see, as a boy, at about 4:30 each day I would try and turn our TV to BBC 2 to catch this fabulous delve into Ancient illusion. I was utterly captivated by its glorious chaos. The dubious special effects, the wonderfully overdubbed dialogue, and a divine quest perpetually hampered by its own low-budget charm. I felt a deep, personal connection to the impulsive, irrepressible Monkey. It was only much later in life, long after the credits had rolled for the final time, that my beloved Pookie, ever the fount of wisdom, informed me I wasn’t just a fan. I was, in fact, born in the Chinese Zodiac’s Year of the Monkey. The prophecy, it seems, was written in the stars all along.

And now, the universe has greenlit a nautical remake, with yours (of course) cast in the starring role.

We are it seems, living it.

To remind newly arrived readers, I am “Monkey” the impulsive, problem-solving, and eternally optimistic brainchild, sworn to reach the West (or in our case, just the next bay without an engine fire). My beloved Pookie is the serene and saintly Tripitaka, whose mere presence (and let’s be honest, her fabulously inventive cooking) can calm the roughest seas and charm the surliest customs official. Our constant companion is a mischievous Water God, let’s call him Sandy, who blesses us not with calm passage, but with a thrillingly unpredictable mix of anchor-entrapping concrete blocks, shredded fan belts, and impromptu nudist swim-bys. And Pigsy? Oh, Pigsy is not one man, but the legion of hugely expensive maritime “mechanics” we meet in every port, all promising catamaran enlightenment but usually just leaving us lighter in the wallet and heavier in despair.

The low-budget charm is all there, right down to the badly dubbed dialogue as we smile and nod our way through languages we absolutely cannot speak.

And so, to this week’s episode – Monkey Style!

When we last left our heroes, That’s Pookie and me… (I should have written “I” but hey writer’s discretion), well we were purring out of Brindisi, with the smell of F2 fuel in our hair and a rare, unadulterated love for life in our hearts. Our journey to Corfu Town was, for once, an uneventful affair, and we checked-in like seasoned pros. Having visited before, we immediately found a suitable taverna, toasted our minor victory, and felt the siren call of Santorini’s stunning views beckoning us onward.

And so, the following day, we set our course for Sivota, a beautiful anchorage we had fondly visited the previous year with Pookie’s sister, Pom. All was well.

Until about halfway across it wasn’t.

For suddenly, the port-side (left) engine’s oil pressure light blazed, and a loud, accusatory alarm shattered the peace. It seems our personal “Sandy” had decided we were having a too easy a time of it. By now, I am an old hand at engine failures; I am the Bruce Willis of marine diesel breakdowns. I shut the offending engine down and immediately fired up its twin on the starboard (right) side.

Now, we had been puttering along on one engine because the sea was a glassy calm. But of course, the moment we were forced to rely on a single engine, a mistral worthy of the TV show’s own special effects department hurled itself upon us. The only port we could realistically reach was Plataria. So, we battled. The one good engine wheezed and the wind howled directly against us at 35 knots, meaning our poor catamaran could only muster a pathetic 3.5 knots of headway.

It was so sudden, we weren’t the only ones caught out; we saw another cat with its sails up, struggling desperately to stop from being flipped over by the gusts, despite running mainly downwind.

After a gruelling two-hour slog, we reached the marginally safer waters of the bay. All we had to do now was get tied up; a task akin to threading a needle in a hurricane. Pookie, our saintly Tripitaka, had been on the radio and phone, and the harbour manager promised help. The harbour master said we would have to moor on the starbooard side of the boat. Having only the use of the starboard engine (that naturally wants to turn us away from starboard) mooring on this side would be a challenge. Fenders and lines deployed, we performed a minor miracle. Once the boat was even vaguely close to the harbour wall we threw almost every rope we had at the harbour master which he quickly tied off to spare metal poles sticking out of the pontoon harbour wall. In that wind, a proper entry into the harbour was impossible; he left us exposed on an outer wall, a sitting duck for the elements but safe at least.

After explaining our issue he kindly contacted a local boatyard, who explained, with admirable honesty, that they had no idea how to fix our problem but would, and I quote, “try.” Two men arrived, confirmed their bafflement, and then did something extraordinary: instead of charging us for their confusion, one of them fashioned a makeshift hotwire to bypass the starter key and alarm. It was a flashback to Episode 002, a trick straight from the playbook of our old friend Floppy. He refused all payment, so we pressed a bottle of wine into his hands, a small offering to a minor deity who had, for once, shown us kindness.

We had a pleasant evening in a local eatery and watched the magic of the sun go down (picture above).

The next morning, the wind came out to play again and was blowing hard on our nose. Undeterred, I activated the hotwire for the port engine and switched the starboard engine on leaving both in neutral. I then began the laborious process of undoing the ten mooring lines that had been our salvation the night before. I threw the last line over the stanchion, quickly climbed aboard and ran to the helm. By this time Sawasdeekat had already begun a slow, lazy drift backwards. I engaged both engines to stop the drift and turn us out of the harbour.

Nothing.

I applied more revs. Still nothing. Then, with a sickening cough, the starboard (right) engine that had been our salvation the day before, died. The reason? A rogue rope, forgotten in the chaos, had been left in the water. As we drifted back, it had wrapped itself around the propeller with the vengeful precision of a trap set by Sandy himself.

It didn’t matter what I did to our hot-wired port engine, it was having none of it. So, there we were, now completely without power and adrift once more, this time inside a harbour, and on a direct collision course with the lovely, expensive boats behind us! “Pookie!” I yelled, “Get on the radio! Hail the harbour, warn everyone we’re drifting!”

I then grabbed a sharp knife, goggles, and fins, and performed my best impression of a naval commando, plunging into the water and underneath our drifting home.

Swimming beneath a moving boat to cut a rope from the starboard propeller is a task I’d rather not repeat, but by some miracle, I managed to sever the binding lines. Frantically swimming back to the surface, I hauled myself aboard and noticed that by pure luck we had drifted in between two walls and that had given us a little more time. So, in a sodden panting mess I desperately tried the ignition.

It started!!

The relief on our faces was worthy of a Rembrandt masterpiece.

With our one starboard engine behaving itself, I powered away from the boats behind us with only yards to spare. Glad to be out of danger and realising our port engine (despite it being able to start) would be in need of more specialist help; we diverted to Preveza, home to larger marinas and, we hoped, competent engineers.

The approach to Preveza was a nightmare of shallow channels, demanding precise one-engine steering. Then came the marina park, a one engine ballet we had to perform with a clumsy understudy. After two near-miss attempts, the marinero shouted, “Just head straight for the pontoon and throw a line!” We did, and he was brilliant, wrapping it quickly so the wind could spin our bow round. The only issue was the wind’s enthusiasm; we hit the pontoon with a sickening crunch, leaving a two-inch dent in the hull as a souvenir.

Annoyed but safe, we thought we’d found a place to fix our starboard engine. It transpired that two things were befalling our stricken engine. The first was that despite using a bit of wire to hotwire the engine, the electronic throttle somehow “knew” the engine had been hotwired. It therefore decided that despite my protestations, blasphemous remarks and pleads to the sea gods, it thought it might be a thief and refused to work. And the reason it wouldn’t start in the first place? Well it was down to ONE single wire that had become loose from the starter motor. So when the marina staff got aboard they looked at the engine for all of 30 seconds, looked at me as if to say “Why on earth is your stupid ass here?” pushed the wire onto the starter motor and charged me €150 for the privilege.

We asked whether the marina could also fix our newest problem, that of a dent in our boat. The marina (channelling their inner Pigsy) quoted us €480 to repair the 2” of gelcoat damage, plus €139 per night to wait for them to maybe get to it. So, we did the only sensible thing: we left. We then sailed across the bay, anchored next to our friends Eric and Vandy on Alwidian, and met up with them, Nicole and Trip and retold our tale of near misses and disasters.

So, you see? It really is the fabled tale. A journey of a thousand nautical miles, beset by divine mischief and earthly incompetence. But as all good tales should, this episode ends on a high note:

England beat Switzerland in the Euros.

So join us next time, as we are followed by a NATO warship, shoot through the legendary Corinth Canal, and reach Ormos Vouliagmenis, where we hunt for a fridge engineer and receive some very bad news…

I will leave you with this little ditty:

Our journey is Monkey Magic, beset by divine spite, With Sandy’s traps and Pigsy’s bills, from morning until night. We sailed with hope from Brindisi, the sea a glassy calm, Until the port-side engine sparked a consequential qualm.

A rogue rope then entangled us, a drift towards the rocks, A splash, a knife, a severed line, to circumvent the shocks. The experts fixed one single wire, then charged a hefty fee, For this is our pilgrimage, across the Ionian Sea.

... Until next week