Off to Ibiza

Surprisingly, our very cunning plan of giving the easterly winds the slip near Gibraltar had worked and we were now far enough north of the strong easterly winds that were still blowing behind us that we could start to think about putting a bit more east into our route. From Almerimar, we decided to go straight for the Balearic Islands, and to head for the most southern one, Ibiza, in particular. Not that we were keen to join the thousands of party-goers (although in my younger years, I (F) probably would have been!), but the weather forecast seemed to be suitable for this two-day crossing.

Boat people

For us, it was an uneventful crossing, which is always our preferred kind of passage. However, during the passage it became clear that for plenty of other people, these waters are neither safe nor easy. We have, of course, all seen the pictures and read the stories about people crossing the Med from Africa to Europe. It was something else altogether though to hear the almost continuous radio traffic on Channel 16 on the VHF from coast guard vessels, cargo vessels, rescue vessels and planes, responding to, or reporting ‘PAN-PAN-PAN’ or ‘MAYDAY, MAYDAY’ calls from small boats, no doubt packed with people, that had left Algeria for Spain.

What to do, in case of…?

We listened in, as one is required to do, and noted down the lat/longs that were broadcast for the vessels that needed assistance. All were well south of us and beyond the range where we could be of assistance. The conundrum of what to do were we to encounter such a vessel would be difficult and heartbreaking. These boats have so many people on them that, should they try to board a boat of Yuma’s size, they would likely sink her.

On top of that there is the issue that, despite international maritime law requiring a vessel to provide assistance to those needing assistance so long as doing so does not imperil the vessel providing assistance or its crew, assisting these boats in the Mediterranean can be illegal (in some jurisdictions you can be charged with human trafficking). Instead, you are required to notify authorities who may or may not decide to provide assistance.

It was a sobering experience to sit in our comfortable little boat, slipping happily along through the water, listening to the radio traffic of vessels reporting small boats packed with people drifting hundreds of miles off-shore or the search and rescue planes requesting vessels to search a particular area. Suddenly the news is right there with you in person, not just impersonal reports of suffering in the news or the paper.

Warships

Also heard on Channel 16 was some traffic related to Spanish warships, which we did not see but which were obviously cruising around somewhere not too far away. In one such conversation, a Spanish warship was being told in no uncertain terms by a British station that continuing on its current course would result in it entering British waters and would be a “breach of Some Convention or Other”, or words to that effect.

In another conversation, an Algerian coastguard asked a vessel to identify a “target” (i.e. an unknown vessel), presumably expecting a migrant boat. “Warship” was the response. “Oh” said the coastguard, “What flag?”. “Spanish”. “SPANISH????”. Either the Spanish need to get their compasses checked, or they are secretly practising for another Armada.

Formentera

After two and a half uneventful days at sea, we made landfall at Formentera, a small island just off the southern end of the island of Ibiza. Our intention had been to anchor in what, on the charts at least, looked like a large and spacious bay. When we arrived however, we found that while it was certainly a large and spacious bay and well protected from the prevailing wind and swell to boot, it was by no means tempting. Instead, it was packed to the gills with all manner of boats.

On its outer edges, squadrons of motor launches, each more gloriously splendid than the next, were being driven at high speed backwards and forwards, tossing up huge wakes and setting every one of the scores of anchored boats swinging wildly from toerail to toerail. Every few minutes a high-speed ferry would blast a passage through this tumult of motoring boats, throwing up an even more enormous wake to throw everyone in the tightly packed anchorage even more cruelly from one side of their vessel to the other.

Ibiza

Having just spent two and a half peaceful days alone on a calm and open sea, we looked at this mayhem and, feeling somewhat traumatized by the whole thing, decided to keep going. Seven miles to the north, on Ibiza itself, was an anchorage which we prayed would be tolerable, if not actually pleasant, in comparison with Formentera.

This time we weren’t too badly disappointed. In the Enseñada de la Canal, we were able to pick up a mooring buoy, away from other boats, off the beach. The water was clear, blue and refreshing and we had a pleasant snorkel before crawling into bed for a long sleep, with a soft doof-doof in the background coming from the beach club nearby. This was, after all, Ibiza.