Blog 030: Croatian Capers, Kafkaesque Coast Guards

(and the Curious Case of the Clicking Engine)

We returned to Sawasdeekat from Malta, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. No customs, no fuss, no last-minute panic-buying of mysterious local cheeses that smell of regret and old socks. It was a clean, simple return to our floating home. A state of grace, you might say. A state that, we should have known, was simply the universe winding up for a particularly energetic pitch.

But let’s rewind to the genesis of this particular chapter to Blog 026. It was Halloween in Montenegro. Picture it: a balmy evening, the scent of salt and celebration in the air, and me, your humble narrator, dressed as what can only be described as the lovechild of a nightmare and a jumble sale – an ‘ugly hooker’ of such compelling horror that it would make a zombie blush. It was in this sartorial splendour that we were first introduced to Jen. A seasoned superyacht pro who’s headed up more interiors than a hotel magnate, she’s a whirlwind of energy, humour, and sporty charm. She didn’t bat an eye at my costume, probably because, as she later joked, a captain’s real job is “less about navigation and more about preventing the crew from starting either a pharmacy or a brothel.” We knew instantly she was our kind of people.

Her partner-in-crime, AJ, was fresh from his stint as captain of the magnificent Black Pearl superyacht. He emerged from that floating palace like a rockstar from a limo, immediately surrounded by a throng of eager faces hoping some of that superyacht glamour was contagious. It was from these two magnificent souls that we first heard the whispers, the siren call of a merry band known as The Viking Explorers – a flotilla of up to 25 boats that cross the Atlantic together in a riot of shared sundowners and communal spirit. A seed was planted.

But before any Atlantic adventures, there was the small matter of the Adriatic. And if our time in Montenegro taught us anything, it’s that boat life is the great leveller. You don’t own a boat; you join a cult. A wonderfully friendly, slightly sunburned, G&T-fueled cult.

Take Mark and Sally. Their Nordhavn 52, a beast of a thing that looks like it could wrestle a kraken, is a monument to nautical engineering. It probably cost more than my entire life’s accumulated pocket change. Yet, within an hour of us docking, they were across the pontoon, with another lovely couple called Karin and Hulgar (on the right and full of good advice) who were also keen to get to know their new neighbours. Handshakes and hellos followed like we were long-lost cousins. This is the magic. On land, a mansion owner and a terraced-house dweller might exchange a wave. A Ferrari owner and 50s Bel-Air enthusiast might exchange a knowing nod but barely does the interaction go past that. That’s Land.

On the water, you’re sharing your last lime and your most terrifying ‘I-thought-we-were-goners’ story before the kettle’s boiled. We, it must be said though, seemed to have amassed more horror stories than both of our new friends combined. Which is a dubious honour.

We supped, we laughed, we compared notes on everything from the best anchorages to the worst marine toilets. We even managed some upgrades. Pookie, my award-winning chef of a wife, has a mantra: go big or go home. Our 32-inch TV from Cartagena (a mere toddler in tech years) was summarily evicted for a glorious 43-inch cinematic experience. To complement it, I procured a set of electric telescopic legs for our saloon table, transforming it from dining spot to decadent daybed. We were now equipped for the ultimate in lazy, seafaring indulgence. Little did we know the universe was about to provide ample opportunity to use it.

For we had a plan. A schedule! (Cue the record scratch and the horrified gasps from every seasoned sailor reading this). I know, I know. Never sail to a schedule. It’s the first rule. It’s like poking Neptune in the eye with a sharp stick and challenging him to a fight.

He accepted.

Our mission: get to Italy to finally investigate that infernal knock-knock-knocking coming from the port sail drive. The journey began not with a gentle breeze, but with a biblical downpour. The kind of rain that doesn’t fall so much as assault. We fuelled up, dealt with customs, and waited for a sliver of visibility before pointing Sawasdeekat’s nose north.

What followed was sheer, unadulterated horror. The sea wasn’t just angry; it was vengeful. Swells the size of semi-detached houses rolled beneath us, with strange, upward-spouting geysers erupting randomly. Four-meter waves crashed over the bow. Pookie was a shade of green I’ve only previously seen in poorly made guacamole. I was soaked, cold, and praying to deities I didn’t know I believed in. We battled a screaming headwind, our engines groaning in protest, until we finally found sanctuary in a bay near Cavtat called Mlina. We dropped the hook in 7 metres of grass and sand, let out a heart-stopping 35 metres of chain, and collapsed, the storm still howling around us like a pack of wolves.

Now, a crucial bit of admin. We had intended to sail straight through Croatian waters to Italy. We’d done our homework. We were flying a jaunty yellow Q flag, the international signal for “We are a healthy ship, we request free pratique, but we haven’t actually touched your country so please leave us alone.” It’s the maritime equivalent of a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign.

Someone, presumably from the comfort of their dry living room, saw our ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign and decided it was a personal insult. So they reported us.

The next day, seas calmer, spirits tentatively rising, we set off again. We’d made good progress for half a day when the VHF crackled to life.

“Catamaran Sawasdeekat, this is Croatian Coast Guard. You must return to Dubrovnik to check in.”

My heart sank. “Coast Guard, we are in transit to Italy. We have no intention to check in. We are under yellow flag quarantine.”

“You must turn around and come to see us.”

“What for?”

“You must turn around.”

The subtext was clear: Because we said so.

So, we folded our downwind sails in and turned our clicking, complaining catamaran around. As we chugged back towards Dubrovnik at a thrilling 4 knots, a military frigate decided to escort us in (Yes a real one, turret gun and all). Just in case we tried to make a break for it with our blistering pace. I half-expected a brass band.

Waiting on the quay in Gruž were eight officials. Eight. They looked at us as if we were Blackbeard’s direct descendants. The quay itself was designed for cruise ships, its giant, black fenders spaced 15 metres apart. Our poor Sawasdeekat was left grinding against one, a fresh wound for every swell.

Crooked Cops

Three men boarded, sat down with the weary air of bureaucrats everywhere, and produced a card machine. Ah, the universal symbol of guilt.

“You entered Croatia without telling us. The fine is 275 euros.”

And so began a thirty-minute debate on maritime law. I invoked the right of innocent passage. I gestured frantically at our yellow flag. I explained the storm, the necessity of shelter, the fact my feet had never touched Croatian soil. It was like arguing thermodynamics with a potted plant.

A senior officer finally asked me to turn off my camera. “Look,” he said, not unkindly. “We see it differently. I will make a discount. You can pay a reduced fine of 175 euros now, or we arrest you. You wait three days for a court date, and you can argue with the judge. You may win. However, we feel you should have at least radio’d in and told us of your plans. Now you have to pay.”

WTF? So now we are getting fined for not using a radio? The excuse and his seeming ability to not only be judge, jury and now financial executioner was suspicious, but the alternative was impossible. A three-day delay? With a broken boat?

Reluctantly we paid the “rip off tourist tax,” as I now call it. We were then told to go to the customs office to check in. I tried one last time: “But I haven’t been in Croatia to check in from!” My words echoed into the bureaucratic void.

We eventually escaped, €175 lighter and five hours behind our cursed schedule, exhausted and developing a serious distaste for the Croatian authorities. Little did we know, our relationship with Croatian machinery was about to become even more fraught.

Fun Fact (If there is such a thing as fun in Croatia): The historic walled city of Dubrovnik was a major maritime power in the 16th century, rivalling Venice. Its laws were famously strict and recorded in a tome called the Statutum. Somehow, I feel our fine would have fit right in.

The following days devolved into a full-blown Comedy of Errors, a Shakespearean play where every scene ends with a pie in the face and the protagonist (yours truly, a man whose mechanical aptitude peaks at confidently using the ‘any’ key on a keyboard) is the only one not in on the joke. Were it not for the bottles of wine and sailing shoulder to cry on that Karen and Ed offered (our friends from Montenegro) I think we could have easily decided enough was enough.

Act I: The Symphony of Failure

Our planned graceful exit from Croatia quickly resembled a drunkard stumbling out of a pub. First, the starboard engine, which had been merely clicking, decided overheating was a more dramatic way to get attention. Within ten minutes of use, its temperature gauge would spike like a teenager’s passion at a BTS concert.

Then, the port engine, perhaps jealous of all the fuss, decided to join the rebellion. It abandoned its smooth purr and almost mesmerising ticking sound and adopted a new sound: that of a bag of spanners being dragged behind a speeding motorbike. A deep, grinding, soul-destroying cacophony. The diagnosis, from my expert ear? “It’s knackered.” (I await my honorary degree in marine engineering).

We were now down to one-and-a-half engines, a ratio that is not covered in any sailing manual.

Act II: Adrift & The Anchoring Fandango

As if the engines’ duet wasn’t enough, the mainsail, our great silent hope, decided it was time for a solo. With a sad flapping sound, a batten worked itself loose, rendering the entire sail useless. In the space of one humiliating hour, we had gone from a fully-equipped, ocean-going catamaran to a very expensive and increasingly nervous raft.

We were officially adrift. The wind chuckled. The current pointed and laughed.

Spotting a gap between two ominously sharp-looking rocks, I performed what can only be described as a minor miracle of panicked seamanship. We dropped the hook, held our breath, and prayed we wouldn’t become a permanent feature of the Croatian seabed.

Sanctuary! Of a sort. Now, to fix it. Time for the hero to roll up his sleeves!

I approached the starboard engine’s seawater pump with the confidence of a bomb disposal expert who’s only ever read the ‘For Dummies’ guide. Tool kit in hand, I undid the impeller cover. Now, for those non-mechanics, an impeller is a little rubber starfish that lives in a hole and pumps water. Its house is directly connected to the ocean.

I learned this the hard way.

Upon removing the cover, the sea itself, in a furious jet of saltwater, decided to personally flood our engine bay. It was less a mechanical procedure and more a summoning of Poseidon. Pookie watched, wide-eyed, as I frantically wrestled the cover back on, swearing in a language that was part English, part pure, unadulterated fear. We tightened it back up, having achieved precisely nothing except a deeper understanding of our own helplessness.

Fearing the worst but deciding we had no choice I nursed the wounded beast on tick-over speed, we limped out of the rocky gap, a sad, slow, and soggy procession.

Act III: Salvation in Tribunj (For a Price)

Our only hope was to find a marina. A real one, with people who knew a spanner from a spatula. We limped into Marina Tribunj on a wing, a prayer, and our faithful genoa sail.

Parking a 48ft (14.5m) long 26ft (8m) wide boat without engines and only a genoa is a tricky job to say the least. Luckily the bag of spanners and ticking time bomb both fired up just long enough to stop us before hittin the marina wall too hard.

The marina staff took one look at Sawasdeekat’s pathetic entrance and our desperate, pleading eyes and sprang into action. These were no bored bureaucrats; these were salt-cured wizards. A young tech glanced at our mainsail, gave a dismissive snort, and within five minutes had the batten secured. It was a fix so simple it was frankly embarrassing. He then produced a new fan belt - the source of the infernal squealing - like a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat.

More Oil, and more water were both added. The water pump, however, was a more serious affair. They couldn’t get the part until Monday. Faced with the choice of a multi-day stay in a pricey marina or a daring 100-mile dash to Italy on one overheating engine, we made the only sane choice available to the chronically impatient: we decided to limp on.

The bill for our three-hour pit stop was a masterpiece of financial surrealism. €90 for the privilege of tying up to their concrete, and €550 for the repairs, which included enough oil to qualify as a bulk purchase and the five-minute batten fix that probably had a line item reading “Expertise: €550.”

But you know what? It was worth every cent. They had done in hours what I couldn’t have achieved in weeks. They gave us back a shred of confidence and one functioning engine. So, we slunk out of Tribunj, our wallets screaming, but our spirits cautiously lifted. We’d covered a pathetic 21 miles that day, but we were moving. North. Always north.

Fun Fact: The charming town of Tribunj is known for its traditional stone houses and supposedly has an ancient olive tree on the main square, which is over 1,500 years old. We were more concerned with a 22-year-old engine.

The final insult? The following day as we motored north on our one "good" engine, the VHF burst into life with a warning: live artillery test firing. The coordinates they read out were alarmingly close (like on our boat!). I got on the radio, my voice perhaps a little too high-pitched, and explained our predicament: “We are a crippled catamaran, making 5 knots. Please do not blow us up.”

After an agonizing silence, they came back. “Ah. Yes. We see you now. We will wait until you pass.” How terribly considerate. Nothing says “Welcome to Croatia” like a frigate holding its fire so it doesn't accidentally vaporise you. The Croatian coast is one of the most indented in the world, with over 1,200 islands, islets, and reefs. Most of them, it seemed, were determined to get in our way as we zig-zagged on one engine northwards.

We anchored in coves that felt like hillbilly homesteads, undoubtedly annoying local fishermen with our single-engine, circling-anchor manoeuvres that looked less like skilled seamanship and more like a drunken waltz. We powered against currents so strong we seemed to be sailing in place.

But we are nothing if not stubborn. And Sawasdeekat, for all her complaints, is a tough old bird.

Frankly, and I know I have espoused this familiar excuse of our lifestyle before, but if it were not for the opportunity to appreciate unique and beautiful views like this from tim to time I am not sure we wouldn't have given up this charade many moons ago.

So join us next time, dear friends, as we finally – finally – escape Croatian waters and sail into the fog-shrouded mysteries of Slovenia and Italy. Please subscribe as I often feel I am writing to myself and if you have enjoyed my little weekly trip down memory lane and know someone else who might, share this with them so that they too can see that, in all walks and paths we tread through life, none are the same but we all seem to have our own majesty of problems round the corner.

As we sail north the knocking is getting louder, the wine is getting better, and the adventure, as always, is just getting started.

Until then, fair winds and calm seas.