Blog 035 – A Comedy of Engine Errors

"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"

H Tredell

Welcome back, dear crew, to the continuing aquatic sitcom that is our life. When we last left you, Pookie and I had just sailed into the forgiving embrace of Montenegro, our spirits cautiously buoyed by Croatia’s final, flavourful overtures. We found the bay bustling with some familiar faces, all of whom were wisely enjoying sundowners with the smug serenity of those who hadn’t recently negotiated with a concrete block eight metres below the sea. We didn’t have much time to spend there as we were already two months behind our schedule and were keen to see Greece and get on our way.

So on the following day our first order of business was a pre-flight check. A peek into the engine bay revealed one of our trusty Yanmars had developed a thirst, having sipped a little more oil than its sibling. We topped it up, a simple act of maintenance that, in hindsight, feels like offering a mint to a patient on the verge of a coronary. With that done, we pointed the Sawasdeekat’s bows towards Bar, officially checked out of Montenegro, and set our sights on the fabled Ionian Sea. Greece, and Santorini, where its whitewashed villages and mythic waters were calling.

To avoid any more customs problems we decided to sail right down the middle between Italy and Albania. For the first hour, the sailing was pleasant. Then, the wind deserted us. It didn't just die down; it left a note, moved out, and changed its number. The sea became a vast, oily mirror, leaving us no choice but to motor. For 25 miles, the engines were our only soundtrack.

Then, a whisper of hope! The wind picked up, teasing us with a breath over 6 knots. With the optimism of fools, we unfurled our magnificent Code Zero sail, a vast, lightweight spinnaker designed for such gentle zephyrs. It filled, we heeled, and for a glorious, silent moment, we were pure sailors, making a respectable 5 knots. It was bliss. It was also, tragically, short-lived. With such a long way to go, the progress was too slow, and with Greece still a dream on the horizon, we reluctantly turned the engines back on.

The engine purred. But, after a mere 10 minutes, the sound suddenly changed as the engine… SCREAMED.

It was a sound no boat owner ever wants to hear - a loud, violent, metallic shriek that ended in an abrupt, tomb-like silence. I had killed it faster than a zombie in a bad horror movie. Lifting the hatch revealed a scene of mechanical carnage. Smoke coiled in the air, and the acrid smell of burnt rubber hung thick. The culprit? The fuel return pipe had staged a mutiny, snapping the fan/timing belt, and throwing itself into the spinning cogs of the engine. It had been shredded, whipping itself around the main crankshaft pulley and bringing the entire starboard propulsion system to a grinding, catastrophic halt.

We were now a one-engine catamaran, stranded between a rock and several hard places. Far ahead lay Greece, a country where we didn't speak the language and had no idea where to find a competent mechanic. To our left was Albania, an even greater linguistic and logistical mystery, complete with the added thrill of needing to announce our entry into their waters, which felt like a complication we didn't need. Our original plan was in tatters.

Then, a spark of clarity. Italy. It was not only 5 miles closer, but the engineers in Brindisi would speak the same language as the… well, let’s call them the "artisans" in Monfalcone who had so recently "repaired" our sail drives. Perhaps the Yanmar warranty would carry more weight there, too. So, in a dramatic pivot, we swung the helm to starboard (right to you land lubbers).

Brindisi was 55 miles away. Our journey transformed into a slow, pathetic splutter, a one-legged hobble across a suddenly very angry sea. The wind, now feeling decidedly ironic, decided to howl on our starboard bow for the next ten hours, making the final approach a bone-jarring, nauseating ordeal. We limped into the harbour at 4 a.m., our souls as battered as our engine.

A mere four hours later, running on caffeine and desperation, we were awake. And in a twist of fate so rare and beautiful we barely recognised it, we realised we had, by pure blind luck, dropped anchor directly outside the Danese Marina & Shipyard. It felt less like luck and more like divine intervention, albeit from a god with a very dark sense of humour.

We went ashore.

Within an hour, a man arrived, clutching a spanner like a sceptre. He peered into the engine bay, muttered a stream of melodic Italian, and via the modern-day Babel fish that is Google Translate, declared we needed to get to their dock. Now those of you who actually red these blogs may realise that I am now becoming a little of an old hand at parking a boat with one engine (Think Cartagena, Monfalcone and Tribunj). Anyway, once parked their engineers worked with an efficiency that was a balm to our souls. They removed the shredded hose, replaced it, and expertly re-routed it on a path that would never again tempt it into the spinning jaws of the fan belt.

Then began the second act of this drama: The Blame Game. We spent the next couple of days in a trans-national argument with Monfalcone Marina, insisting that their shoddy work during the saildrive repair was the direct cause of this disaster. Their response? They were not happy. They suggested, with a breathtaking lack of logic, that we might have sabotaged our own boat. Their Yanmar subcontractors were adamant; they never touched the fuel line. I, in my best diplomatic-yet-desperate tone, countered: "You moved the entire engine. The hose, therefore, was moved. It had 26 hours of runtime to find its way into the cogs. This is not a coincidence; it is causation." Finally, grudgingly, they conceded and the bill was paid.

Now, two things conspired to keep us in Brindisi a little longer. The first was a piece of Greek bureaucratic genius. The Greek cruising tax is calculated per month, but it doesn't start when you arrive; it starts at the beginning of the calendar month. It was now the 28th. To arrive now would mean paying for a full month for just three days stay. This was an absurdity even we couldn't swallow. We decided to become tax exiles, waiting until the first of the following month to cross into Greek waters.

The second reason was our saviours, the wonderful people at Danese. They had invited us, as their guests of honour, to watch the F2 Powerboat World Championships, for which they were the main sponsor. In a heartbeat, our narrative flipped from maritime misery to high-octane glamour. We were given ringside seats and all-access passes. We got the video equipment out and dove into the fray.

The air was electric, vibrating with the scream of high-performance engines. Fun Fact: F2 powerboats are the Formula 1 of the water, single-seater rockets that can hit speeds of over 90 mph, skipping across the waves on a knife-edge of control. Watching them tear past our vantage point, close enough to feel the spray and the concussive thump of the engines in our chests, was utterly exhilarating. We wandered the pits, a hallowed ground of focused intensity and spare parts, chatting with the racers who were, to a person, a fascinating blend of athlete and engineer. The boss of Danese Marina even presented us with a magnificent bottle of local Puglian wine, a gesture of such warmth it felt like a hug for the soul.

What began as a near-tragedy had been transformed into a wonderful, unforgettable experience. It was a stark reminder that the best adventures aren't the ones that go to plan; they're the ones that fall spectacularly apart, only to be rebuilt into something even more brilliant.

So, we sit in Brindisi, our engine purring, our glasses full, and our eyes on the calendar. Greece is so close we can taste it (and it tastes like feta and olives). Next time, we finally, finally cross the threshold. The Ionian awaits.

Until next time...