‘We paired perfect sailing with colourful evenings ashore’: Exploring unexpected Greece by boat

A summer cruising where the wind takes them brought one final surprise for Richard and Maxi Thomson

The wind was dying with the light after a lively passage down the western Peloponnese, but a lumpy sea remained. As we sloshed around in the swell, my wife Maxi and I easily made the decision to fire up the Volvo Penta for the last handful of miles into Pylos.

Fifteen minutes later the engine note suddenly wandered, before the motor groaned in protest and promptly died. I dashed inside to investigate. Our engine bay is vast and lies under the saloon floor of Namika, our Angus Primrose-designed 1983 Trident Marine Voyager 38.

I secured the trapdoors, then climbed in. The engine is just two years old, the seawater filter was clear, the shaft still spinning with our momentum. Nothing looked untoward, but fuel seemed the most likely culprit.

An attempt to depress and release the manual priming pump confirmed this so, as we wallowed around, I set about changing the pre-filter then tried to prime again. Nothing: the rubber boot remained depressed. Maxi hailed a yacht heading our way, doubtless bound for Pylos. They kindly agreed to shadow us, but were afraid to tow us into Pylos in the swell and were insistent we should call the coastguard.

We hoisted more sail to try to get some way on Namika but the zephyrs had completely gone and the sails banged furiously as we rolled. We tinkered some more. With just two miles of sea room and the waves gradually sweeping us ever-closer to the rocky shore of the Peloponnese, our usually very patient dog Minca growing restless, and our own nerves somewhat fraught, we decided to heed that advice and called the coastguard. They arrived about 40 minutes later and helped us into port.

Crystal clear waters in the Sartonic Gulf before heading out into the wider Aegean. Photo: Richard Thomson

The next morning I discovered a gluey slime clogging the hose, fuel cock and connections. A full day of picking, prodding, pulling and using a dinghy pump to force air through the system eventually cleared the lines. I then pumped the entire contents of the tank through a makeshift polisher.

We connected everything back up, primed and successfully started the engine, and over the next two days completed the necessary paperwork with the coastguard. We also managed to acquire an outboard fuel tank and some extra fuel hose, just in case the problem recurred. We had been lucky to be unlucky so close to Pylos. But, just weeks into our season we couldn’t help wondering: did this bode ill for the months to come?

Middle Cyclades

The famed meltemi had been fitful at best for several weeks in the Northern Cyclades, but as midsummer approached the winds seemed to have finally arrived once we were into the Middle Cyclades, and we streamed eastwards at seven knots. While not the quickest in light airs, Namika is superbly balanced at the helm and goes like a train as the breeze freshens.

After some slow miles in the preceding weeks we were all delighted to be making such good progress – none more than Namika it seemed, as she swept across the rolling southbound waves on a close reach. Our good friends Sarah and Luka were cruising in tandem with us on their own yacht, and the islands of Serifos, Paros, Ios, Schinousa and Koufonisi passed in our wakes.

The author Richard his wife, Maxi, up at the bow of their 1983 Trident Marine Voyager 38 Namika. Photo: Richard Thomson

For those who relish lively conditions, the Middle Cyclades are a perfect cruising ground, with plenty of anchorages to choose from and islands in every direction to suit whichever wind direction prevails – though in the summer it’s typically a variation on a northerly.

The island chain is mostly bare and barren compared to western Greece, with the white houses of the choras glistening atop their island perches. These classic hilltop Cycladic towns were typically built at altitude, with good views to give warning in the event of approaching pirates.

We paired perfect day sailing conditions with colourful evenings spent up in the choras with our friends, where we enjoyed marvellous dinners in the tavernas, against the backdrop of the Euros tournament playing out on large, open-air screens. We enjoyed the atmosphere and the football – though certainly not as much as our island hosts, whose passion for the game dwarfed our own.

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From Koufonisi we took advantage of a gentler few days to visit a small, poorly protected anchorage on the island of Irakleia, drawn by tales of the well-preserved remains of a German seaplane that had been shot down in 1943.

Legend has it that it was caught in much deeper water by local fishermen in the 1980s, who towed it to the bay so they could free their nets. The result is a wreck lying in just over 10m of water, accessible to freedivers. Though the crew are reported to have escaped the plane in parachutes, the wreck was still eerie as we circled the skeletal fuselage in the relative gloom.

On the island of Amorgos we bade our companions a heartfelt farewell before they continued south-east, while we planned to return west through the Southern Cyclades. But not before trying an outlandish experiment – extending two spare halyards down into the shimmering blue-green sea and taking turns to be hoisted high into the air as the two yachts edged away from each other.

The famed – and at times fearsome – meltemi was slow to develop early in the season in the Aegean. Photo: Richard Thomson

The halyards were extended by bending a dock line onto each and tying a stopper knot at the end. A person in the water then held one rope in each hand, just above the stopper knot, and as the boats motored apart the lines tightened and the person could be lifted out of the water by simply hanging on.

We were surprised to find we could get up to around spreader height quite easily before we chickened out, let go of both ropes and fell back into the water, all to much laughter, whooping and hollering. This silliness was followed with a celebratory dinner as the sun set.

Slightly melancholic after their departure the following morning, we found ourselves sitting in Namika’s cockpit with a large format passage chart of the Aegean. For no good reason, our eyes were drawn eastward and onto the Dodecanese, that chain of Greek islands lying just off the Turkish coast. And thus, we changed our plans, which is of course the beginning of many an adventure.

When the meltemi did arrive, fast sailing conditions followed. Photo: Richard Thomson

The Dodecanese

Completely free of expectation, we set off having not yet chosen a landfall. The breeze was fresh and just aft the beam and we were making close to seven knots. Namika excels in these conditions and we were able to leave her to sail herself. By lunchtime we’d passed the small island of Levitha and were on a comfortable course for larger Leros in the Dodecanese.

With the prevailing summer northerlies sailing south would be our general direction of travel. Nevertheless, we gave the northing a brief go and bashed up to Lipsi and even Patmos, before calling time and returning south.

One day, after four hours of thrashing to windward, never doing less than four knots over the ground during that time, we discovered we had clawed just five miles upwind. I scoured the internet for mentions of a south-going current in the vicinity, but couldn’t find anything and it remains an unsolved mystery of our season.

After collecting visiting friends on Leros, we continued south to Kalimnos, dropping anchor in a tiny bay all to ourselves. Open to the north-east, this small fjord-like anchorage only really had space for a yacht or two, with limited room to swing.

Wreck of a World War II German seaplane off the island of Irakleia. Photo: Richard Thomson

With a beach at the head of the bay, we ran shore lines across the bay to keep our bow pointing at the entrance. This proved well worth that little extra effort, because while a small amount of swell crept in we had a very comfortable night – Namika’s bow rising gently with the waves. But the real prize for getting in here was the unspoilt, mountainous backdrop, complete with feral goats and a vast sinkhole. We hiked up, peered down into the abyss, then wandered back to sea level again to enjoy an evening spent watching the stars.

With almost no wind the following day, we decided to potter a few miles down the coast. Surrounded by jagged peaks all around, Palionissos is a climber’s paradise, and the village alternately lives from yachting tourism in the summer or climbing tourism in the cooler winter. Here we met the remarkable Nicholas. Together with his equally remarkable wife, they run a quiet, traditional little taverna inland, which we’d only found while walking our dog, Minca.

We got chatting and indicated we’d come back for dinner. An hour or two later we were greeted like old friends, and enjoyed a long evening with them. As the wine flowed (plenty of it ‘on the house’), Nicholas told tales of sponge-diving and a career as a ship’s pilot, before pulling out a battered copy of Yachting World from the 1990s! In it, they and their taverna were described in glowing terms. The years have certainly not diminished the couple’s hospitality.

Tied ashore in Fiskardo where we dined right by the water’s edge, looking out at Namika and the other yachts. Photo: Richard Thomson

We sailed onward to neighbouring Kos (with its international airport), where we said goodbye to our friends and plotted our next move. It was by now late into the summer, and though we had generally enjoyed excellent sailing conditions for months we were well aware of the powerful storms wracking the western and central Med, reaching as far as the southern Peloponnese.

I’d kept a constant eye on PredictWind small-scale models of the wider Mediterranean for some time, which indicated near-continuous violent westerlies threatening to boil round into the Aegean. We were scheduled to return to the Ionian for the winter, and so it was time to start some westing.

Changing Conditions

As we made sail for westward Astipalea, it felt as if we were quite literally sailing towards the deteriorating weather we had spotted. By the time we approached the butterfly-shaped island, the waves were several metres high and we were luffing to take the larger ones on the bow before bearing away as the green water subsided. The fetch here is over 250 miles, and the sea reflected this.

We hoped to anchor in a large, landlocked bay with a tiny narrow entrance on the northern side of the island, but as the sea built we were growing slightly nervous at the prospect.

After a day’s sail we set off for Anafi’s peak, summitting just before the sun began to set on a darkening sea. Photo: Richard Thomson

While the bay promised complete shelter from wind and waves, the entrance was an almost dead-end with just a narrow inlet from which to reach the bay itself. We were particularly apprehensive about running down into that entrance with those seas behind us; broaching seemed a real risk.

Before committing, we therefore decided to test it while we still had plenty of sea room. After dropping the main, we eased the genoa tentatively and bore away with some apprehension to take the seas on our stern. Remarkably, the forward motion of the waves now seemed to be interrupted by the island to leeward. We rose and fell on the – still significant – waves but were not pushed around by them, so decided to make for the inlet.

As we approached both waves and wind continually eased and we gybed in benign conditions before finally motoring through the narrow inlet, which suddenly opened into the huge, promised bay.

We anchored alone in 7m on mud with just a few ripples belying the howling wind and waves outside. There’s little to compare with that feeling of being safely anchored after an exhilarating sail, and we celebrated with an aperitif in the cockpit before going ashore to walk the ever-patient Minca.

Two days later and the wind had vanished. As we crept out of our secret haven and rounded the northern cape of the island of Astipalea, we were greeted by a pod of dolphins in water so still and clear that it could have been from a swimming pool.

Exploring the colourful fishing village of Klima as the waves roll in. Photo: Richard Thomson

When the breeze did return it was a brisk north-westerly as winds from the western Med started to boil beyond the Peloponnese and affect the normal weather patterns of the Aegean.

In such conditions, the Southern Cyclades can present a challenge because, other than southerly Crete, there is nowhere to run off to before you reach North Africa. However, the forecasts suggested we had a window where we should be able to close-reach or close-haul along the southern extremity of the Cyclades.

The pressure to use this window ultimately gave us one of the most memorable days of the season. We rounded neighbouring Anafi in the early evening after an eight-hour sail, passing a monastery perched high on a vertical cliff towering above the shallow bight that was to be our anchorage.

On a whim, we took torches and warm layers and set off for the peak, summitting the 1,500ft just before the sun began to set on an endless, darkening sea. To be all alone witnessing the colours of golden hour from a birds’ eye view atop a sheer drop into the Aegean was magical. Unexpected, perfect days like these are, for us, what cruising is all about.

Santorini at sunrise, looking back towards neighbouring Anafi. Santorini is short of good anchorages, so you need to chose your timing carefully. Photo: Richard Thomson

A Final surprise

The westerlies ultimately forced us north again and we abandoned our plan to return via the Peloponnese in favour of the Corinth Canal, opting to keep land between us and the Ionian for as long as possible. The westing was nevertheless gruelling, even in the comparatively sheltered Gulfs of Corinth and Patras.

Back in the busier Ionian and with the weather forecast to deteriorate again, we made for a well-protected bay on eastern Ithaca, which was unsurprisingly full to bursting point. Though we squeaked in for the night, we decided to leave this dodgem fair first thing in the morning before the thunderstorms arrived and run north to Vlikho on neighbouring Lefkada – a hurricane hole we know well which offers excellent shelter.

All smiles and delightful sailing conditions. Photo: Richard Thomson

That evening, thunder and blinding rain duly rolled in and we were on anchor watch much of the night, though our oversized, 33kg Rocna anchor held without issue.

The next morning we took the dinghy ashore, savouring the lush green of the Ionian after the storm. There, opposite the town of Nydri, we met a sad, scared little dog with a scruffy collar, who looked in a bad way. Though the events that followed are a long story best left for another time, the brief version is we contacted the local animal rescue shelter and discovered she’d been known on the streets of Nydri for several months, unclaimed and presumed abandoned.

The result is that, somehow, we now have a second rescue dog on board. Her name is Nydri.

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