Chapter two: A Rude Awakening
I’m writing this after what has been our longest and most intense day at sea so far. It’s been quite the week. Full of incredible moments, but also a few that have stretched us, tested our skills, and pushed us well outside our comfort zones.
After making our way to Pag Island (for their world famous cheese), we dropped anchor in what we thought was a calm, well-protected bay with solid holding. At 3 a.m., we learned otherwise. The wind picked up. Then the alarms. Then the unmistakable jerking motion of the boat. Our anchor was dragging.
Still half-asleep, we scrambled into warm layers and rushed to the helm. One glance at the anchor app showed that we had already drifted out of the bay and were being pulled toward the strait.
Back home on Vancouver Island, we’re used to different seabeds. As well, our old girl, the Ruffian, had a different anchor – the trusty Danforth-style that seemed to grab onto anything. Out here? Let’s just say we’re still building confidence in our setup.
With the wind continuing to build, we made the call: no resetting anchor in the dark. We’d set sail for Rab to make good headway. So, under a silver moon, we set off. Quiet, focused, a little shaken, but moving. The sea eventually softened as the sun came up, and with it, so did we.
When we reached Rab, it felt like a reward. It’s one of the most picturesque places we’ve seen. Four clock towers rising above the old town, a castle backdrop, blooming parks, and impossibly clear water. We slowed down, took a breath, and allowed ourselves to chill.
We wandered, ate Rab cake, hiked in the forest….… which is where we found Šuma – an abandoned forest kitten (check out the little video we posted about the unexpected find).
After Rab, we made our way to Krk, which we had been to previously while on the hunt for our boat. This time it was quite different seeing it from the water. We anchored in a bay near Punat and the island of Kosljun, and explored the medieval town of Krk, and visited the Franciscan Monastery and museum. We even tucked ourselves away in a quiet northern bay to explore hidden caves, paddle, and hike.
And then…Today
Today was meant to be simple. We planned to take advantage of favorable northerly winds and make a bit of distance down to Medulin, near Pula to start making our way up the Istrian peninsula. That’s not quite how it played out.
The winds started lighter than expected, so we motored past the north end of Cres. Eventually, we caught some wind and sailed wing-on-wing for a while—until the swells started rolling in as we entered more open waters. The wind lightened, the sails flapped, and we were left bouncing awkwardly between motion and momentum. After bouncing around for a while and not making much distance, we assessed the weather and knew there was a storm brewing near Pula which was looking to start that evening. We weighed some options:
- Stop early and tuck into a remote bay (and potentially be stuck there for a few days with no ability to restock on supplies)
- Push on to Medulin, where we’d have shelter, supplies, and somewhere to hunker down and wait out a storm more comfortably
We chose to push on.
At first, it seemed like the right call. The wind picked up, we raised sails again—but the swell kept building, making it hard to maintain control. Eventually, we dropped the genoa, then later the main, switching fully to motoring. And the wind all the while continued to build – Stronger. Gustier. Earlier than forecasted.
By the time we approached the bay, we were dealing with 25–28 knots and heavy, confused seas. The boat was being thrown around, waves crashing over, everything demanding full attention.
We had been out in 28 knots before, but this was in Greece when we were taking our coastal skippers course. Some key differences were that it wasn’t our boat, we had an instructor present, and the helping hands of several crew made sailing in such strong winds a breeze.This time felt very different.
After 3 hours of pushing Dali to her max, holding lines and bracing to bear the brunt of the crashing waves and holding on from being bounced and swept from side to side, we were exhausted, distraught and discouraged. Nathan and I hadn’t talked in hours except for barking a few quick commands back and forth to help get us through. And in between the chaos, one quiet thought kept returning: Had we made the wrong call?
In the Safety of Medulin Bay, at Last
After what seemed like an eternity and we finally dropped anchor, the relief was immediate, and overwhelming. We didn’t celebrate. We didn’t talk much. We just went inside the comfort of our cabin… and watched the anchor app.
Back and forth we swung. Watching. Waiting. And then, eventually, we trusted that we were holding and finally could breath.
Days like this are humbling. They remind you how quickly conditions can shift, how small you truly are out there, and how much there still is to learn—not just about this new foreign Adriatic sea and handling our new boat, Dali, but about my own limits and confidence at sea. But, this is only week two, so I know there is plenty of time to grow into it.
EN_CA
Leave a Reply