"Time and tide weather the Body's vessel, but it is our own choice that decides whether we set sail for adventure on Sawasdeekat

or lie at anchor watching life from the harbour"

The world, at 3 am, is a different planet. The Tyrrhenian Sea was a pool of spilled ink, the sky a velvet pincushion for a million cold, sharp stars. On the deck of Sawasdeekat, the only sounds were the hushed conversation of the waves against her hulls and the gentle, sleeping breath of Trapani, receding slowly behind us. Pookie, my culinary superstar, will often get up with me and help raise the anchor, but once acheived, she was now curled up below, a vision of peace entirely at odds with the ungodly hour I’d chosen for our escape. We were Sardinia-bound, chasing a forecasted breath of wind across 155 miles of open sea.

The plan was elegant in its simplicity. Slip away under the stars, let the night do the hard work, and wake to the emerald coves of the Costa Rei. The universe, however, is a notorious stand-up comedian with a talent for slapstick, and it had already begun its warm-up routine.

We have another issue however, our Fischer Panda house battery generator had decided to embark on a silent protest. Very Silent. It wouldn't start.

I tried to find out why my car battery charger solution hadn’t worked but whatever I did, achieved precisely nothing. The kind of nothing that is expensive and deeply personal. Our solution was one of beautiful, temporary idiocy: we decided to use a long, orange extension cable snaking across the deck from the socket in the galley into the locker where the car battery charger was in a vain hope it would generate life like a patient on life support. We left it there, sucking up the volts, a tangible admission that we were not yet the masters of this particular domain.

The passage was a long, hypnotic drone. The promised winds were more of a polite suggestion, offering the occasional, apologetic puff. We managed some sailing, the code zero blooming like a magnificent, technicolour lung, but our speed bled away to a sedate 5.7 knots. We motor-sailed, a compromise that feels like cheating on your principles but is necessary for your sanity. The miles unspooled slowly, the sun rose, arcing overhead and then finally plunging into the sea, only for us to still be there, chugging along in the dark. We finally slid into Cala Caterina as the evening sun was gilding the Sardinian cliffs, a full 27.5 hours after we began. We were seafarers, yes, but seafarers who moved at the pace of a contemplative sloth.

Sleep, that night, was a theoretical concept. Our anchorage turned out to be the Mediterranean’s equivalent of a motorway service station. Every passing speedboat and fishing vessel sent a rolling, drunken swell our way, turning Sawasdeekat into a metronome of nausea. After seven hours of being tossed about like a salad, we admitted defeat and crawled around the corner to Torre delle Stelle. Here the anchorage was so tight for space you could high-five your neighbour without leaving the cockpit. But it was calm. and in that moment, calm was a greater luxury than any five-star hotel.

Pookie’s birthday celebrations were, sadly, a casualty of our exhaustion. There is no glamour in a birthday cake when the primary gift you can offer your spouse is the promise of uninterrupted unconsciousness. We collapsed, vowing to make it up to her in style.

By now our generator was still not responding to our efforts and with our batteries down to 41% we were getting desperate for electricity. Salvation, as it often does, arrived in the form of friends. Kenet, the brilliant photographer who’d captured that iconic shot of us waving from our boat in Cartagena, heard of our generator woes and offered to send in the cavalry. Enter Bjiarne, a man who spoke to engines in a language of grease, spanners, and gentle persuasion. So good is he in fact that he found problems with our engine just climbing over it on his way to the generator!

For nearly two days, he wrestled with the starter motor, a mechanical surgeon performing a tricky operation in our floating home. The downtime in Cagliari was a blessing in disguise. The beach area we were staying at (Poetto) was thrumming with life, a saint’s day and a bank holiday conspiring to fill the piazza with music and laughter. It felt like the entire island was throwing a party just for us.

Now, a word about our saviour, Kenet. This man is not just a wizard with a camera; he’s a sorcerer with a sourdough starter. When he’s not capturing the perfect golden hour, he’s probably creating it in his oven, producing baked goods so divine they could probably calm a Force 9 gale. His own particular brand of magic involves luring perfectly sane land-lubbers onto a boat and, through some clever alchemy of sunshine and sheer charisma, turning them into a fully-functioning crew. He runs hands-on sailing adventures where your holiday isn't just about lounging with a cocktail (though I'm sure that's available), it's about earning that cocktail by scrubbing decks, wrestling with halyards, and taking the helm. It’s a "working holiday" where the work is actually, mysteriously, the best part. It’s wildly popular, proving that people don’t just want to see the Mediterranean; they want to feel its spray on their face while accidentally jibing. (@zimmermanns_sailing_adventure)

Pookie, being Pookie, decided to seal the deal with a gratitude you can eat.

She cooked a feast for our rescuers, a symphony of flavours that made the boat smell like a Michelin-starred kitchen. We waved goodbye, 140 litres of fuel heavier and with a working generator, feeling invincible. Porto Pino, here we come!

The Mediterranean, it turns out, had other ideas. The waves that greeted us were not waves; they were liquid, malevolent walls, intent on beating us back to Sardinia. After 28 brutal miles of being punched in the face by Poseidon himself, we surrendered and ducked into the shelter of Capo Spartimento. Sawasdeekat had become a submarine that occasionally breached the surface. We would try again tomorrow.

And tomorrow, oh, tomorrow was a day to carve into the memory of Sawasdeekat’s hull. We broke our record. Not by a little, but by a heroic, back-breaking, sleep-defying margin. 235 miles became our new personal best. From the rugged coast of Sardinia, across the open belly of the Mediterranean, to the gentle embrace of Teulera, near Mahon, in Menorca. It was our longest passage ever, a marathon of motor-sailing under a vast, indifferent sky. The wind remained a coquette, never offering more than a teasing 12 knots, forcing us to chug along at 8-9 knots, the code zero sail barely getting a workout.

But then, a miracle. You may recall our piscatorial drought, a curse that had held since the waters of Montenegro. Well, as we crossed an invisible, aquatic border into Spanish territory, the curse broke. The line screamed. From the heaving, chaotic water, we hauled a magnificent tuna, a silver-blue bolt of lightning, a gift from the deep in the midst of the turmoil. It was a sign. We had made it.

We slid into Menorca at 8 am, bleary-eyed and triumphant. The human batteries were beyond flat, but the sun was shining, and Mahon’s harbour, one of the largest natural ports in the world, was a balm for the soul.

Fun Fact: Mahon’s harbour is so deep and sheltered it was fought over for centuries by the British, French, and Spanish. The British, during their 18th-century rule, are credited with introducing mayonnaise, (“salsa mahonesa”) to the world. So, you can thank Menorca for your chip dip.

A day of chilling, shopping, and feeling the pressure of our Spanish deadline led us to explore the island’s other gem, Ciutadella. A stunning old town of honey-coloured stone and labyrinthine streets, it was the perfect place to recharge.

But the siren call of the next island was too strong. A day’s sail brought us to Mallorca, and I was a man possessed by a 30-year-old memory. I had to revisit Sa Colobra. This is not just a cove; it is a cyclist’s altar and an eater’s abattoir. The road down is a masterpiece of engineering, a coiled serpent of tarmac that clings to the cliffs. It’s famous, a brutal climb that separates the pros from the amateurs. But we, arriving by sea, had the easy route. We dropped anchor in the breathtaking, mountain-fringed bay, the water an impossible shade of turquoise. And then, we got hungry so we looked online.

What followed was the most spectacular deep-dive into culinary despair I have ever had the privilege to witness. Sa Colobra, it seems, is the Bermuda Triangle of good taste. Let us embark on a tour of its gastronomic crime scene. We shall ignore the ‘self-service’ place. It’s the culinary equivalent of a neutral country; it exists, but we don’t talk about it.

Topping the charts, if one can top a chart that is submerged in a swamp, is Bar Platja sa Colobra. 384 reviews grant it a 2.9. The champion! The praise is however… faint: “All the dishes from a microwave and expensive.” Another comment “Sixteen euros for a small plate of meatballs that have seen the inside of a Whirlpool more recently than a frying pan.”

Next, Brisamar (2.2 stars). The reviews whisper of “terrible cold food covered in oil.” A shame, they say, as the view is nice. This is the restaurant equivalent of a supermodel with a shocking personality.

Then we enter the truly alarming territory. Mar Azul (1.8 stars) read as “Super expensive, low quality and quantity.” The holy trinity of dining disappointment.

But now, dear reader, we descend into the ninth circle of hell’s kitchen. A duel for the title of ‘Worst of the Worst’.

A La Carta 322 people gave it 1.3 stars. The comments are a tapestry of horror: “bugs, staff coughing over food, worst place ever! Dirty toilets, cockroaches, octopus cooked in a microwave, cats! Paella with bones in it… The entire staff, including the kitchen, looks like something out of the Addams Family movie...” It reads less like a review and more like a script for a zombie apocalypse set in a bistro.

You think it cannot get lower? You sweet, summer child. Behold, Es Port (where 1.3 stars feels criminally generous). 479 people felt this establishment has elevated failure into an art form. One review detailed a cheese counter featuring mould that was not of the intentional, blue-veined variety, and a headcount of 22 cats on the terrace.

But the review, the Pulitzer Prize-winning review that had me weeping with laughter, came from one Myrthe van Oosterhout. She christened it “The Kitty Catastrophe Café - Where Fine Dining Meets Feline Fiasco.” I can not do it justice by merely picking out bits and so will drop it below for your enjoyment:

“The Kitty Catastrophe Café - Where Fine Dining Meets Feline Fiasco ⭐☆☆☆☆

(I would give it zero stars if I could, but apparently even this place deserves one... maybe for the free entertainment?)

If you're looking for a dining experience that combines the charm of an animal shelter with the gourmet cuisine of a dumpster, look no further than the Kitty Catastrophe Café! This establishment redefines the concept of "farm-to-table" by skipping the farm entirely and just letting stray cats roam freely on the tables. Yes, you heard that right—cats on the tables. As soon as we walked in, we were greeted by a waiter with the kind of enthusiasm you might expect from someone being forced to eat glass for a living. He made it clear that we were an inconvenience, not customers. Perhaps he was just tired from spending all day perfecting his "resting scowl face." Either way, we knew we were in for a treat. After seating ourselves (because apparently that's how things work in this circus), we waited for what felt like an eternity for someone—anyone—to take our order. As we sat there, we noticed something strange: nobody else was eating. Plates of food were left untouched, with patrons wearing expressions that ranged from bewilderment to sheer terror. It was like a scene from a horror movie, where everyone realizes too late that they've made a terrible mistake. At one point, I thought the waiter was finally coming over to take our order, but instead, he just sneezed directly into the air and walked away. I wasn't sure if I should laugh or run for my life. Eventually, we decided to cut our losses and leave, but not before witnessing the pièce de résistance: a cat jumping onto the table next to us and casually licking the butter. The best part? The waiter saw this and shrugged as if to say, "What did you expect? This is the Kitty Catastrophe Café!" In summary, if you're in the mood for rude service, a side of cat fur with your entrée, and an experience that will leave you questioning your life choices, this is the place for you. Otherwise, do yourself a favor and just go to the drive-thru next door. At least there, you can eat in peace—without feline interference or the lingering fear that your waiter is plotting against you. Would I recommend it? Only if you hate yourself. And even then, maybe not.”

We read these testimonials from the safety of our galley, where Pookie can conjure magic from tins and spices. We did not eat. We looked at each other, at the stunning, savage beauty of Sa Colobra, and we laughed until our sides ached. Sometimes, the greatest adventures are the meals you don't eat.

So we dined aboard, kings and queens of our floating castle, serenaded by the gentle lap of water against the hull, a thousand stars our ceiling. The generator hummed, the tuna was fresh, and all was right with our world.

Join us next time, when we meet friends in Mallorca for Europe’s biggest annual water fight where we have a baptism of chaos and laughter. We also and, most importantly, welcome the crew who will join us for the big one: our Atlantic crossing.

The horizon is calling, and it sounds wonderfully loud.