I’ve decided to change the names of some of my companions in this post because I’m going to be a bit forthright about a few things they may find uncomfortable. And one I just changed because it amused me.
Way back in 2001 and 2003 I visited my friend Donna/Antonia (that’s another story) in Barcelona, and we road tripped around northern Spain. She mentioned more than once how fun her visits to Mallorca had been, traveling with her Catalan friend Hujo.
Mallorca is one of the Balearic islands off the east coast of northern spain — about 100 miles from Barcelona. Its southern neighbor Ibiza is known as a party island. Menorca to the north is more rustic. Mallorca sounds like the perfect blend of beautiful mediterranean beaches, resorts, culture, and mountain vistas.
In the intervening years I became active in a new sailing club and rose to the role of planning trips, as well as serving as Commodore for a couple terms and ongoing service on the board. I kept Mallorca in my back pocket as I planned trips to England, Florida, and the Chesapeake Bay.
The requirements for chartering in the Med became stricter so our qualified skippers had to earn an International Proficiency Certificate (ICP) before we could plan a trip to those waters. We were all already qualified, but we needed the piece of paper. The club arranged for its skippers to take the required written exams with a national sailing organization through which they could then apply for the ICP.
With that hurdle completed in 2019 I was able to work with a friend on a trip to the Cote d’azure, France’s Mediterranean coast. After that trip I put my Spain proposal on the table for a year later — the end of the summer of 2020. Berths on the trip filled quickly and I and my assistant trip leader dug into research of sailing conditions and places to go.
When everything shut down in the spring of 2020, it was obvious our club would not run a trip to Europe in the fall. We didn’t run any trips anywhere that year — the charter companies would not, or could not, rent boats. Fortunately, the charter company we were working with allowed us to postpone our deposit on the trip for 2021. We rescheduled, and everyone who’d signed up stayed with us.
But by mid-summer 2021, although international travel was opening up and people were getting vaccinated, the challenge of getting everyone to Spain felt like an unacceptable risk. And some of our participants were still not going out to eat and interacting with strangers — let alone getting on airplanes. So we asked to delay again, but the charter company said no. We could use the deposit at one of their other bases, but we couldn’t delay another year. So we moved to their charter base near Newport, Rhode Island and had a good week sailing to Martha’s Vineyard and the other islands in the area.
Unrelated to their refusal to let us delay again, we were not happy with that particular charter company. We’d used them in several locations and found the boats in poor condition and the base staff varied from good to poor. In New England there was one guy doing everything. He was doing his best, but he couldn’t possibly be effective. After one of our boats lost a dinghy in the USVI because the fiberglass where the line fitting was attached failed, we decided we were not going to use that company again, and definitely not in Spain.
So Mallorca went back in my pocket as we went in other directions. After another year or so my assistant trip leader, who roams the world like Carmen Sandiego, found a new (to us) charter company with boats in Mallorca. These boats were in a marina on the north side of the island, whereas the previous company was in Palma on the south side. Mallorca is not a huge island, but it’s too big to sail the entire coast in one week. We threw most of our previous planning out the window and started over designing an itinerary for the new location. We sent our planned itinerary to our contact at the charter company and he said it looked fine, but surprising as most people who charter with them sail to Menorca. We had discussed and discarded this idea as there were places we wanted to see on Mallorca. Most notable is the large port on the east side of the island, Porto Cristo. It offers lots of restaurants, beaches, shops, and a tour of the flooded “Dragon Caves” that sounded intriguing.
We announced the new version of the trip, now planned for the spring of 2026, and once again berths filled up quickly, including some of the same people who signed up the first time. There was inevitable churn with people dropping out and others joining. At the last minute someone dropped out due to illness, leaving the smallest boat with just four people.
Feeling starved for a good vacation, I headed for Mallorca six days before we were to board the boats so that I could explore the island a little and be fully recovered from jet lag by the time the sailing started. Lucky for me, my assistant trip leader, the traveller, gave me a flight upgrade so I could stretch out on the red-eye across the Atlantic. I arrived in Palma and recovered my luggage, then found the rental car shuttle. Soon I was behind the wheel of a little manual transmission VW Polo Despite the layflat seat on the plane I was not well rested. I sat there for a few moments before summoning the focus to handle the clutch and gearshift. You don’t want to pop the clutch in the rental agency’s parking lot. I didn’t.
I had my wifi hotspot on and Google maps to navigate me to my hotel. Unfortunately, it seemed that in order to pair my phone with the car so the map could display on the car’s screen, I had to join the car’s wifi. I struggled with this for the next several days. I’d get the map on the car’s display only to realize it did not know where I was because I had disconnected from my hotspot. And yet, sometimes it worked. It’s a technical mystery I’ll never solve now. I ended up just looking at the phone screen.
I found the hotel easily enough, and pulled in under an overhang of the building to stop outside their front door. I went inside and found out that my room would not be available for hours — no surprise, it was only about 9:00 a.m. In my planning I’d imagined visiting Palma this morning. In reality, there was no way I could. I was exhausted. I asked about parking and the receptionist said “Our parking is over there, but we charge,” pointing vaguely toward the rear of the building. “Or you can park for free in any space with a white line.” It’s a testament to my fatigue that I did not request more specific directions to the garage.
I left my luggage with her and went back to my car. I couldn’t find a way to get off the property, other than the same driveway I’d driven in through, which was angled for coming in, and required a tight turn to get out and merge into traffic. Fortunately, a driver was kind and let me in. I found my way around to the back of the building, but saw no parking garage entrance. I did find lots of parking spaces delimited by white lines. There were also yellow lines that clearly indicated bus stops. Nice and clear. Every single white lined space was taken. I drove further. Several blocks around the area. No empty white line spaces. I probably drove around in circles in that neighborhood for an hour, getting used to driving manual and feeling just too weary to act with more efficiency. Finally I drove back to the hotel, parked under the overhang, but further from the door, and got out. A security guard approached me. Clearly I was breaking a rule. I suspect only taxis are welcome to drive in there. I explained that I was trying to find the garage entrance. The guard pointed the same direction as the receptionist had, but standing outside I could now see the big green P light half a block away on probably the only street I had not driven on already — I had been on the next street up and seen the garage entrance, but it was far from the hotel, so it didn’t seem connected.
Off I went once more, this time using the rear driveway that I hadn’t seen the first time. I found my way around the blocks once more and drove down into the underground garage where a sign clearly told me where to go for the hotel. I parked and entered the door labeled for the hotel and found myself in a corridor leading to the lower level and the, sadly, closed spa. It was still too early to check in, but the receptionist gave me a card with which I could access the pool and third floor “reception” area where there are snacks. Except the pool opens at 11:00 and it was 10:00. I went to the restaurant off the lobby and ordered a latte and a croissant. When it was close to 11:00 I went back to the desk. and asked to get into my luggage. I took out my swimsuit — another woman was doing the same thing. I went to the the pool assuming there would be a restroom there. Nope. A bar, lots of seating, showers, but no restroom. So I went to the third floor and found the special reception area behind a locked door that my card would open. I passed it by and found a restroom not behind a locked door. I changed into my bathing suit and went back to the pool. When I showed the lifeguard/towel attendant my card and pointed at the towels she frowned and said what sounded like “pink?” But she gave me a towel so I let that little puzzle recede into my overtaxed consciousness.
The pool deck was high above the surrounding buildings with a view of Palma Bay. I could see the several marinas in the area, one quite nearby, the others further west nearer downtown. It was hot and the sun was bright, but the pool was refreshing. I swam and read and dozed. It was good to just do nothing for a while. But even a sunny paradise can become too hot to bear. It was early afternoon when I gathered my stuff, pulled my clothes on over my now dry swimsuit, and headed for the the third floor reception area.
I entered the seating area where people were sitting at a long table next to a couple tables of hot and cold appetizers. Nice. I moved toward the food, and was intercepted by an employee who said this was a special tasting event. I could go enjoy the food around the corner. So I moved on around said corner and saw a similar arrangement of food at the far end of the room. There was also beer, wine, soda, and an elaborate coffee machine. I collected a plate of cold cuts, cheeses, fruit, and breads and settled in at a table for two with a view of the beach. I went back for a glass of wine.
Sometime later my friend the receptionist came in and went to the kitchen/service area. When she came back she said, on the fly, “your room is ready.” And even better, she could check me in right out by the door of this special reception area.
I elected to go get my luggage from the lobby because it was clear asking them to bring it would mean a long wait, and I wanted to strip, shower, and lay in bed. Now. So I went back to the lobby, then up to the ninth floor to find my room.
I’m not sure I’d say it was worth the wait, but it was very, very nice. I had a panoramic view of the ocean over the top of the apartment building across the street. I could look down at the pool, and the apartment building’s pool, and the roof of the building next door that turned out to be a converence center, not a government building. My bathtub had a glass wall looking into the room, with a curtain for the shy. Heck no, I took my shower looking across the bed and out the window at the sea.
I had an ironing board and iron, so I freshened up the shirt I’d worn on the plane. And as evening arrived I ordered myself roomservice. It was more food than I needed, but it was good and I could go from meal to bed. So I did.
In the morning I woke up feeling alive again. I had a car and a day to myself. Originally I’d thought to drive into Palma and see the sights, but I had come to realize that traffic and parking are tough, and the entire old part of the city is a no parking zone, so I could not get close. With my unreliable left knee, I didn’t want to commit to a lot of walking. Some yes, not tons.
I studied the map and found a house with a botanical garden to the north west. We weren’t sailing to the west coast at all, so going that direction made sense. I packed myself a day bag and went down to the garage.
I was still challenged by syncing the phone to the car and at the same time retaining internet connectivity. It seemed to work, then it stopped and I had the map, but no indication of my position. I’ll blame that for my meandering course. I thought I’d made a wrong turn and was no longer heading for the botanical garden. I saw signs for the town of Soller, a place “Carmen” and I had discussed going after the sailing trip on the drive back to Palma and the airport hotel we’d both booked. Well, no harm in visiting it myself first, so I kept going.
Moments before I was to enter a tunnel thorugh a mountain, I saw a sign for the botanical garden I’d been aiming for. I had not noticed that it was indeed on the road to Soller. But I’d missed the turnoff, so I dove into the long tunnel. It was so long it had huge fans at either end. But it did eventually end, and when I was back out in the sunshine I found the traffic. Soller is very popular. Soller is lovely. Soller is quaint and pictueresque. I drove into Soller and along some of its narrow cobbled streets. I drove back out again, never seeing parking. To be honest, I was still a little jet lagged and not in the mood to deal with people and strangeness. I did find another botanical garden on this side of the mountain tunnel, but it too seemed to lack much parking. So I plunged back into the tunnel and when I came out the other end I made a left turn into the small parking lot for the villa and garden.
I’m sure the Soller botanical garden is nicer, but this one was lovely and just the right size for my tired self. I toured it along with other visitors. I opted not to dash down the path to the fountain, because there were additional fountains that sprayed the path, triggered by anyone who cared to press a button back at the start. I viewed the herbs and citrus and a bougainvillea plant so big it was a tree. I looked at the koi pond and went on to the goat pen, but I drew the line at the additional walk to see ancient olive trees. I took myself to a terrace with a small bar and ordered an orange soda.
While I was enjoying my beverage, my phone rang. it was my assistant trip leader. Some background: About six weeks earlier, he had broken his ankle while hiking in some far flung location (Carmen Sandiego, remember?). So we’d contacting the charter company saying one of our skippers was injured and we may need someone to be the skipper on his boat — could they recommend someone (who we would pay). They said they’d see what they could do. Meanwhile “Carmen” got his ankle taken care of and cancelled some of his intervening travel plans so it could heal. He gained confidence about being able to be a skipper, and we’d moved a strong sailor to his boat, so I didn’t follow up with the charter company. I had lost track of when he was coming to Spain, as he’d originally been going hiking or biking or something on Menorca before coming to Mallorca, but all that was off.
So when he called me, I had no idea where he was. He said he was not well. Really not well. We probably needed to ask the charter company about a replacement (again). Then he explained that he was in a hotel in Palma and he was seeing a doctor later, but he was not optimistic about being able to sail, or even being on a boat for a week. He gave me a little more detail about his ailment that doesn’t bear documenting, except to say it was not a condition anyone wanted on a sailboat — not him, and not the rest of his crew.
He wanted to know where I was, so I told him and he sounded disappointed, perhaps thinking I was nearby and could come to him. But there was not much I could do — he had medication to treat the symptoms, but he was worried about the root cause.
I drove back to my hotel and went back to the pool deck to enjoy some reading in the sun and a swim or two. This time when I approached the lifeguard/towel girl, she managed to say “do you have a pink card?” Oh! So my friend the receptionist had failed to provide. Fortunately, the lifeguard gave me a towel saying “get a pink card.” Well, this was probably my lasat visit, so I agreed and went to find a lounge. When that got dull, I moved to the adjacent bar and got a gin and tonic and a bowl of nuts. I sipped and nibbled seated at a table in the shade watching small sailboats racing out on the bay. Things didn’t get much nicer.
I’d finished my drink and was heading for the elevator to go to my room when “Carmen” called again. The doctor wanted blood work, so he was going to the local hospital. He might have to stay, or might not, and he was not that confident about the Spanish healthcare system. He’d tried to reach his own doctor, but he was off. I took it all in, said sympathetic things, urged him to let me know what happened next. I still didn’t think it was useful for me to drive in to Palma, park somewhere, then hike to his hotel (which was what was required, he’d told me). He also said he’d walked about four miles that day. Dude, if you can walk for miles… But I knew that was because he was treating the symptoms, and he probably had to work off nervous energy.
I reached out the charter company again, saying this time we really did need someone. They were looking. I was awfully glad that so far only “Carmen” and I were in Spain. Tomorrow I would have to start herding cats.
I had found an AirBnB near Porto Pollença that could accommodate six people, and I’d gotten five of our crew members to join me, making it very affordable. Three of them were my crew, the other two were on the other two boats. Four of them were arriving tomorrow, the last one was due the day after. I also knew that a group of three who were on another boat had an AirBnB in Palma for one night, but they would take care of themselves. Most of the rest were arriving the next day — Friday — and had made their own arrangements. We would convene at the marina on Saturday.
After my chat with “Carmen” I decided I didn’t want another adventure today, so I went to the lobby restaurant for dinner. I had their version of Wienerschnitzel. It was pork, I believe. It was tasty, but the portion was absurd, and included a huge mound of fries. I imagined the waiter telling the kitchen staff “it’s for an American.” I enjoyed another great sleep in my luxurious room.
In the morning I got breakfast in the third floor reception buffet, which offered a good continental breakfast and even had bagels and cream cheese. There was a pastry filled with what looked like tunafish blended with mayo — cocoa brown and smooth. Another woman asked the attendant and he managed to convey that it was chocolate. Well, okay, it could indeed be chocolate cream, but the other woman agreed with me it looked like tuna. I took a slice and stuck my finger in the stuff. Yup, chocolate, I told her. It was, according to the attendant, a local speciality.
Properly fueled, I dragged my bags downstairs and checked out, then on in to the garage. My first stop was easy, as I’d driven by it several times — a local Lidl grocery store. It had an underground parking lot with tiny spaces. Good thing my rental was tiny too. I had fun selecting some cheeses, meats, olives, fruits, breads, and other goodies so that my fellow travelers would have food available once they got to the apartment. I also got gin and tonic and a couple bottles of wine. And I paid for an insulated bag so it could sit in the car most of the day.
Next I set the phone to take me to the hotel I’d be staying in at the end of the trip, so I would know where it is. It was easy to find, in a very busy neighborhood a couple blocks from the beach. Clearly there was no place to park, which had been our plan — drive here for the night, then drive to the airport in the morning and return the rental car. Not the one I had now, that would be returned on Saturday, and we’d get the second one when we got back from sailing. “Carmen” had reserved one for that part, but with his broken ankle he’d canceled it and I’d done a reservation instead. Now, who knew whether he’d even be there?
Okay, well, that problem could wait until the end of the trip. Now I turned onto the street one block off the beach with hotels and shops on both sides and thousands of people crossing back and forth wearing beachwear and carrying coolers, boogie boards, noodles, umbrellas, towels… It was like every beach town I’ve ever been in and I enjoyed the drive and the flashbacks to childhood on Southern California beaches. At one point it became all German, and further along there was an African flavor.
When I ran out of beach road I found my way back out to a highway and drove to Porto de Pollença. First I found my way to the apartment in a development to the east of town. I entered the complex using the provided code and saw the pool, then went upstairs to find the apartment itself. The door was open and there were cleaners at work, so I kept walking. The instructions clearly said checkin was after 5:00. Satisfied I knew where I was sleeping, I got back in the car and drove on into Pollença.
I was immediately charmed by the town. I found my way to the large supermarket I thought we’d use for provisions and was relieved to see it had parking. I drove down to the waterfront and discovered that I could drive all the way out the wharf to the end where our boats lived. They were not there, of course, being on charter this week. There was even parking there on the wharf, with a machine to pay. The charter company office is in town somewhere. I was pretty sure if there was a staff person there, they would not be the one looking for a skipper for us, so I did not make any effort to visit it.
By this time I’d gotten a text from one of my gang, Sue, saying she had landed and was now waiting for two more, the Kings, who were on a later flight. Our AirBnB host had arranged a ride for the three of them. I’d also received a text from my fourth guest for today, Al, saying “I”ve arrived at Palma airport. Where do I go?”
Now, in the weeks before the trip I’d let my group know that I could get rides arranged via our host, just let me know. The three who were coming today had done so, and the one who was coming tomorrow had also taken me up on it. But Al had been silent. I don’t really know him, and I’m not responsible for getting people where they belong — especially if they don’t ask! Who flies to Europe knowing they’re staying at an AirBnB without also making arrangements to get to it? Well, Al does, apparently.
I texted him back and told him to look for Sue (who’d told me where she was at the airport). Then I noticed my phone said the recipient had notifications turned off. Well that’s just great. I texted Sue and asked her to look for a lost looking guy. She agreed, and asked for his number so she could try to reach him too. You gotta appreciate people who will do more than is called for.
A little later she texted that she and the Kings were in their van and Al hadn’t turned up. Oh well. Then I got a text from him saying he’d taken a taxi. Okay, that’s going to cost a lot, but I knew he could handle it. A bit later I got a text from Sue with their ETA so I headed back to the apartment and waited in my car until their van drove up.
They looked like I had on Tuesday, so I helped them get their luggage out and piled not far from the elevator up to our place, but it was still too early to go in. We went to the pool and settled in on some loungers. There was no sign of Al, which was odd since he should have left the airport before these three. We called him. He said he was sitting by the pool with his luggage, where were we? We said no, you aren’t, because we’re at the pool and there’s nobody else here.
Despite my having sent the address of our apartment, and the information about airport rides, he had managed to find a different email from the other group that was staying in Palma tomorrow that included the address where they would be. And that is where he’d taken his taxi.
We went around a bit getting him the address where he should be. He kept repeating it back incorrectly:
Mia: “The address is 10 Carrer del Lledoner, that’s C-A-R-R-E-R D-E-L L-L-E-D-O-N-E-R.”
Al: “Number 10 carier de Olden…”
Mia: “No, not O-L, L-L. It starts with double L.”
Sue: “Pronounced ye in Spanish.”
After repeating this little skit a couple times ( L-L, not O-L!), Sue finally texted the address to him. He was then going to the concierge where he was and get a taxi. We told him it was a long way, he could get a bus to Pollença and then a shorter taxi ride. But despite that information having been shared with everyone before the trip, I knew there wasn’t a chance he would try to do that. No, he would get a taxi. Okay, see you in an hour or so…
About a half hour later he called back and asked for the address again. The taxi driver had brought him to a street in a “sketchy” neighborhood and stopped, saying, “number 10 is back there, but I couldn’t stop there, so you have to walk back to it.” I have no idea how much english the drive spoke. So Al had dragged his luggage along this street and found a pizza restaurant and certainly no sign of an apartment building that might be our AirBnB. He asked the restaurant owner for help finding the address. The restaurant owner got Sue’s number from him and called — believing that we were his wife for some reason. Sue gave him the address. He realized how far away we were, and confirmed that’s really where Al was supposed to be. Yes, yes, can you please help him?
It was now approaching 4:00 so I contacted our host and said that I’d seen the cleaners leave, could we enter the apartment? A few minutes later he responded yes, definitely, enjoy! So we took turns with our luggage in the little elevator and along the balcony to our door. We got the key out of the lock box, but neither Sue nor I could get the door open. After turning the lock and knob this way and that and pushing and pulling, I contacted our host again, and fortunately he was online. he apologized and said we had to pull it toward us as we turned the knob. Yup, it opened right up. After the trip I would urge him in my private review to add that to his entry instructions.
The apartment was a three-story affair. The main floor with kitchen, dining, and sitting area opened out onto a big patio with another table and a view of the pool. Down stairs were three bedrooms, one with an en suite bathroom. Another stairway out on the deck led up to a second rooftop deck with views of the mountains and the sea. We all changed into bathing attire and returned to the pool to actually go for a swim.
Al was still absent when we went back inside and got out the provisions I’d bought, but we had just gotten it arranged for serving when he arrived. So with everyone accounted for we could retire to the deck and enjoy our repast, which everyone agreed was plenty for dinner. We’d made a dent in the food when Sue’s phone rang with an unknown number, but one that had called her before. She knew immediately it was the pizza place.
The proprietor and his wife were calling to make sure that Al had reunited with his “wife.” This was without a doubt one of the biggest surprises of a trip full of them. We all chatted for a while on speaker phone with these lovely Mallorcans, broken english and weak spanish easily overcome by good feelings on both ends of the line.
Sadly, the narrow, single beds in our lovely apartment were rather uncomfortable and I missed my big hotel mattress. But morning came and there was coffee to be made and breakfast to be cooked. We had one more guest arriving: Denise was on the early flight and taking a pre-arranged car. Before we could sit down to dine on the deck overlooking the pool, she texted asking how to get in.
With Denise completing our group, we discussed plans over breakfast. Denise’s plan was to take a nap. The Kings decided to walk to Polença, about two kilometers along the beach. I would drive there with Sue and Al so they could see the town and the dock and pick up a couple things at the store.
Despite having driven around town the day before, I still found it a maze of one-way streets. We drove past the supermarket and on down to the waterfront, noting various types of stores that might warrant a visit. I took them all the way out the wharf and parked so that we could unfold and look around. I saw a boat approaching the dock and a couple men on the dock calling out directions. As the boat swung stern to I read the name — Avalon. My boat!
As the charterer backed in the boat side-slipped in the double wide space. I couldn’t tell if it was current, or poor control of the engine and bow thrusters. Either way, the bow slid to port putting the boat at an angle in the space. But the charter company guys got the charterer to work with them to straighten it out and secure the lines.
Med mooring here requires backing up to the wharf, which is unpadded stone, passing stern lines to someone on the wharf (or having someone jump off) to be secured. Then someone on board takes up a line that’s secured to the wharf and runs to a mooring out in the channel. They walk forward along the side deck, following the wet line until they get to the bow, then haul in on the line until it’s taut and cleat it, holding the boat off of the wharf. There’s a line like this on each side. The trick is to get those lines tight, then back up to where you want the stern, still not touching the wharf, and tighten the stern lines.
The success of this operation depends on the helmsperson keeping focused and judiciously using the engine and, if available, bow thrusters. It also depends on the crew understanding what line goes where and acting as needed. Having someone on the wharf helps a lot. Surprisingly, backing into a space between two other boats is actually easier if you can have crew along both side decks fending off as you back in — at least you’ll be straight.
The boats we chartered have swim platforms on the stern that are usually lowered once the boat is secured, so the boat needs to sit with the platform not touching the wharf. Of course we put a fender between it and the wharf. Usually the wharf is high enough that most people can’t climb from the platform up to the wharf, so the boats carry a gangplank. Fancier boats have a passerale that folds up and might even have a hand rail. As I watched, I learned that Avalon has a basic wooden plank.
Once Avalon was secure I introduced myself to the charter company guys, but they were too busy checking the previous charterers in to talk. As they talked, I realized that the charterers were German. This would become an ongoing theme.
Al, Sue, and I decided the food we were seeing served at the restaurant right there on the wharf looked really good, so we asked for a table. It was a good decision. We watched how the charter company managed the charterers over a delicious lunch. But this meal revealed the beginning of an ongoing problem — Al had no euros. He told a not very amusing anecdote about ordering euros from the bank and having them delivered, then leaving the envelope on his desk. I said we’d find him an ATM and he said he did not trust debit cards, he cuts them up when they send them to him.
He put lunch on his credit card and collected euros from Sue and me.
After lunch we drove back to the supermarket to pick up a few things. Then, since we were not too far from the charter company office, we decided to walk there from the store, leaving the car in the underground lot and eliminating the need to find parking. Al had, by this time, expressed his need for a water bottle. Sue wondered, reasonably, why he hadn’t just bought a bottle of water at the store so he could keep and refill the bottle. But instead we stopped at a couple shops along the way with no luck. Then Sue suggested that he needed a bike shop. Pollença has a lot of them, and a lot of cyclists. But there were none along our route. Also, it was about 2:00 — siesta. Many shops were closed.
My left knee was starting to ache by the time we found the address, an office building. And upon further review of the charter company website we discovered that it had closed about ten minutes earlier. As I slumped onto a step to get off my knee, Sue offered to go get the car. I handed over the keys. Yeah, she wasn’t on the contract. It was an acceptable risk. Al stayed with me, saying that he was also worn out. He had better reason than I, having only arrived yesterday. When Sue got back with the car she immediately got out and handed me the keys. She said as I pulled out into light traffic that she’d realized she hasn’t driven a standard in a long time.
The King’s twin adult children were due in late in the afternoon — they had joined the trip replacing a couple cancellations, so missed out on the AirBnB. They were staying in a hotel in Pollença. There was a vague plan for them to come to us for dinner, but back at the apartment we learned that yes, they had arrived, but no, they were too tired to come out. I did not blame them. Sue, Al, and I had bought chicken and salad makings, so we all had a pleasant dinner.
At some point that day “Carmen” had contacted me to say he was definitely not coming. He was arranging to fly home on Sunday. So the need to find someone to skipper his boat was very high. The other option was to put Sue, Walt, and Judy on the other two boats — which would make them both a bit crowded. On top of all that, on my mind was my boat’s provisioning. Normally I would have already started on that, buying non-perishables and storing them in the trunk of my rental car. But one of my crew, the King’s daughter Bridget, is severely gluten intolerant. Prior to the trip she’d put together a suggested menu and offered to be responsible for meals. While I love cooking on charter trips, I definitely didn’t want any medical emergencies, so I agreed to that plan.
On Saturday morning we tidied up the apartment and settled up the food costs. Al owed me about 28 euros or 33 dollars. The others all handed me euros. He tried to hand me a hundred dollar bill, saying I could give him change. I said no, I would not give him a 82 dollars worth of euros and be stuck with a hundred dollar bill. Nor did I want to give him $82, because I would need US small bills when I got home. He could pay me when he had some euros, or smaller US currency. He was, I think, surprised when I said I would not take responsibility for remembering his debt.
I took everybody and their luggage to the wharf. It took two trips, and I only got a little lost going back to the apartment in between. We couldn’t board the boats until 4:00, and when we arrived we saw the charter guys and boat cleaners hard at work on all three. Rubin and Passepartout had come in after Sue, Al, and I left the previous afternoon.
Charter checkout days are always chaos. The woman who runs the charter office was there to have Bob and I sign a ton of paperwork. She had me sign for Passepartout, the third boat, as well as Avalon. Then her husband Alexi told me he thought they had someone to sail Passepartout.
We were still waiting to be able to board the boats, so some of us settled in at the restaurant for another great lunch. As we finished some of us had euros to pay and Al reached for his wallet. I suggested he take the euros and pay with his credit card. Knowing that at least now he’d have some euros, I walked away to deal with something.
Just as I was getting ready to take Bridget to the supermarket the charter guys wanted to do the physical checkout on Avalon. So Bridget set off alone on foot (it’s not that far) and I and her twin brother Eric went aboard to go through the charter company’s list.
I’ve chartered a lot of boats. Nothing about Avalon was unusual, but all boats have their quirks. Also, Eric has not chartered a lot nor sailed boats her size, so the review of everything was very useful for him. He has an excellent memory for detail that would be a real plus all week.
We were up on the foredeck about to review use of the anchor windlass when our guide realized the water tank on Rubin that he had a hose filling was overflowing. He rushed back astern to go take care of it. As he came forward over on Rubin his bare toe slammed into something on deck. He yelped and grabbed his foot. I turned to Eric and said, “that’s why you always wear shoes on deck,” then I looked down and saw his bare feet. He stammered out a “I was in a hurry, I usually…” I waved him off, saying it was okay, I didn’t mean to embarrass him. I thought it was pretty funny.
When Alexi came back he waved his finger at us and said “Do not go barefoot on boats!”
The checkout took at least an hour. Somewhere during that time I’d learned that the person they had a line on had changed their mind and would not come help us. But they were still asking around. They laid out the same options I’d already thought of — leave Passepartout and put her crew on the other boats.
With Bob I’d discussed doing daysails and returning here each night so Passepartout‘s crew could sleeep over there, but that really didn’t sound like fun. With everything still up in the air I drove with Eric to the supermarket to help Bridget. I realized that she had no idea of the non-food provisions we needed, like drinking water, paper towels, toilet paper, dish soap, sponges… And I needed wine for myself.
At the store Eric went to find his sister and I went to find the drinking water. I loaded a cart full of 6 litre jugs. On top of them I stacked the paper goods and kitchen requirements. On top of that I piled a couple bags of cheap red wine and a six pack of beer. I was about done and looking for the twins when Sue called me (by this time I had splurged on an international day pass for my phone) to say they needed me back at the boats, they had a line on a skipper but had to talk to me.
I found my shopping partners and told them I had to go right away. Bridget said she was about done. So I checked out and loaded my stuff in the car, then waited in the air conditioning until Bridget and Eric came with their carts. It all fit. As I drove us back to the boat, Bridget said she had not expected the shopping to take so long — “three hours!” I could have told her it would take exactly that long, but I suspect she would not have believed me. Given that she’d had to read a lot of Spanish labels and translate them to be sure there was no gluten, I thought she’d done pretty well.
Back at the boats I left the crew loading the provisions and went to have the required discussion, sitting at the restaurant bar. The person they’d found was the wife of a licensed captain, but not a captain herself. Her husband was a friend of the base manager, and he personally knew her experience. They said she had the same qualifications as Bob and I. Therefore we were not hiring a captain, we were paying an expert crew member. This is a legal nicety. If you don’t have a certain level of license you cannot accept compensation for acting as captain. Even letting the crew buy you dinner can be seen as payment. Now, I had already thought about other niceties — our club requires membership to participate in our trips, and signing a liability release form. I didn’t have a copy of that with me (although I could have insisted the charter company download it from our website and print it). I certainly wasn’t going to insist this woman join our club.
The reason for the urgency in my agreeing to the arrangement was that she lives in Andorra. She had to drive to Barcelona and catch a flight to Palma tomorrow morning. The charter company would have someone pick her up. We shook hands on the plan and they put things in motion. We’d meet Sofiie tomorrow.
With this settled, now Passepartout‘s crew could go buy provisions — I’d gotten some basic dietary info about Sofiie for them, being more aware of such things given my boat’s situation. Bob and his crew were also in the process of provisioning. Alexi offered to buy me a drink at the bar, but I had to decline — I had to go gas up and return the rental car.
By the time I walked back from that errand — again, not that far, it’s a small town, but I was already exhausted from the stress — I was done. Despite the repetition for Sue, Al, and me, we all got tables at the restaurant right off the sterns of our boats. I had no problem finding something else delicious to eat.
Sunday morning was not as hectic as Saturday. Crew members had time to take showers in the little facility next to the restaurant, go out for breakfast, shop for last minute things, and I think a few even went to the beach. Sofiie arrived around noon and met her crew, then met briefly with Bob and I. We told her the basic plan and she raised no objections or concerns. Once all crew had returned, all water tanks were filled, and all gear and provisions properly stowed, we set out. As I and my crew were ready, I ordered the lines dropped first and we pulled away from the wharf. My crew handled everything beautifully, including hauling up the swim platform and stowing the gangplank. It was a little tricky finding my way out of the marina, but with the boat’s chart plotter and my iPad with Navionics I figured it out: basically a big u-turn around the fuel dock then straight out.
Out in the bay we took our time raising the mainsail to be sure we worked out any kinks in the lines or strange configurations our German predecessors might have introduced. The breeze was light, so we had plenty of time to examine the house on the point, Sa Forteleza, which is the setting for the British TV series The Night Manager with Hugh Laurie and Tom Hiddleston. I had yet to watch it, but some of my crew were excited to see the massive property. A little research told us it’s the biggest residence on Mallorca, which is easy to believe, and the most expensive, valued at more than 100 million euros.
We sailed out of the bay and across the north coast of Mallorca to the next jutting peninsula and our planned anchorage at Es Caló. But even as we approached we were apprehensive. Cala Es Caló, situated on the west-facing side of the peninsula, is home to beds of Posidonia oceanica, a protected seagrass. The fine for anchoring – even having your anchor or rode touch – the grass is 1000 euros. As we approached Cala es Caló we saw many small boats there along with a few sailboats about our size. That was promising, however, it soon became clear that the remaining open space was the designated protection zone, and even though we could see big patches of sand, it was a risk to anchor there. Sofiie checked out some spots further south on the peninsula while Bob and I checked closer to, but outside of, the protected zone. We settled on that area, where a powerboat was already anchored when Sofiie came back saying it was windier where she’d looked. That might have been a mistake.
The holding in sand was excellent. Once we were anchored everyone on my boat went for a glorious Mediterranean swim. This was to have been our club’s traditional appetizer – tapas – dinner when everyone gathers on the largest boat for food and cocktails. But none of the skippers were in the mood to move their dinghies off the bows of the boats and mount the outboard engines, so we agreed to postpone that party to another night.
As evening came the wind died and the boats began to shift with the current. Now the swells curving around the end of the peninsula had free reign to rock us to sleep. Or not. Very few of the crews actually slept that night as the boats heaved side to side and back and forth on the random swells.
In the morning I met with Bob and Sofiie via WhatsApp to discuss the plan versus reality. The nice northerly we’d had yesterday was stronger now, qualifying as the Mistral, a wind generated in the Alps that sometimes rushes across the Med. In Turkey it’s called the Meltemi, in California, it’s the Santa Ana wind. No anchorage would be less rolly than Es Caló, and most would be worse. Availability of berths in the big port where we had planned to be the next two nights was unclear. Sofiie confirmed that one of the two marinas there was closed due to construction. The other would not confirm availability until later in the day. If we sailed there and could not get in, we’d end up anchored in an exposed, rolly anchorage.
Sofiie was able to get confirmation from Club Nautico in Ciudadella, or at least that’s what she told us. To this day I suspect she decided we needed to go there and told us what we needed to hear. But Ciudadella is on Menorca, the next island north. By taking that option we were throwing out our planned itinerary. However, the comfort and safety of our crews was what mattered, and we agreed that’s what we would do.
Bob and I recalled the charter company’s suggestion that everyone who charters their boats goes to Menorca. So the stubborn Americans were getting in with the “in crowd” after all.
The twenty-six miles to Menorca’s west coast offered a great sail (and a distance reminiscent to me of some of my earliest sailing trips to Catalina Island off Southern California). The boats handled well and the crews took turns steering and handling sails. This was what we came for!
The entrance to Ciudadella is a long, narrow inlet between impressive rock bluffs. A very old tower on one point once protected the port from attacks from the sea. We became very familiar with those bluffs and that tower as we “milled about smartly” (our club’s label for waiting) at the entrance until we received the okay to enter the channel. Sofiie with her command of multiple languages managed to make them understand over the VHF that we were there, although even she said later that she couldn’t understand most of what they were saying. Passepartout soon disappeared into the winding channel. Bob somehow got through to them to announce his boat, Rubin, was waiting. He called a couple times, and eventually they told him to come in. It was obvious they had to help each boat get Med-moored to the seawall before having another come in.
I continued to circle, calling on the VHF occasionally – trying to keep them aware of us without being annoying. Time passed, my crew memorized the sights – the swimming hole on the port side looked very inviting. The steps up the bluff to starboard to a nearly invisible door were fascinating. Other boats came and went. Finally Bob sent a WhatsApp message “Avalon come in.”
We headed in past rows of boats Med moored on the starboard, and many boats, mostly smaller, on docks on the port. There was no sign of Rubin and Passepartout. I was beginning to fear being able to turn around if I overshot when finally one of my crew spotted some of the other boats’ people waving from the wharf on the right. We were directed to an open spot where a dockhand shouted unintelligible instructions that clearly meant “back in here.” Teeth gritted, I complied with judicious use of forward and reverse and liberal use of the bow thrusters. The crew handed stern lines to the guy on the dock, and suddenly Sofiie was there too, taking over and adjusting stern lines. Someone handed crew members the mooring lines to put on the bow cleats to keep the boat from hitting the stone seawall. Sofiie directed me in adjusting Avalon’s position until she was satisfied. After she went away we adjusted a little more and made sure fenders were properly placed.
It turned out that one of the many boats that had passed Avalon out at the entrance had slipped in and taken her spot next to Rubin, which was why nobody had called us in – they were busy with that boat. Bob had taken the initiative lest another boat get by and take the last spot.
And so we were Med-moored at Club Nautico in Ciudadella on Menorca, where we never planned to go.
Ciudadella is a very old city on a much older island. Menorca has more than 1000 ancient burial sites of various types and in various conditions. It has survived sieges and wars and navigated the Spanish revolution. Today it is a popular tourist destination. While street signs are in Spanish, museums and historic sites, and the tourist information office, offer a mix of German, English, French, Italian, and Catalan descriptions of exhibits. Sitting in Avalon’s cockpit with my docking beer, looking up at the ancient stone walls, and also the large restaurant with tables a few feet from our stern, I felt excited to explore. Tomorrow.
We all dined at that restaurant directly off our sterns, Aquarium. The seafood was fresh, the other dishes were delicious, and the prices were reasonable. Heaven for exhausted sailors.
In the morning Bob, Sofiie, and I met to interpret the weather forecast. The Mistral was getting stronger. I had held hope of leaving the city to anchor in one or two of the beautiful coves along the south coast of Menorca – after all, the wind was from the north, right? But no, the predicted swells in each of these bits of paradise ranged from .75 to 1.5 meters. All night. Worse than we’d experienced at Es Caló. So we told Club Nautico we were staying and they happily collected our fees, which were, in fact, pretty reasonable. I hated breaking the news to my crew. We’d all been looking forward to another secluded anchorage like Es Caló. But not the rolling all night.
With the decision made, everyone was free to scatter across Menorca. The younger Kings went in search of access to the swimming hole we’d seen the port entrance. A lot of us made our way up the hill into old Cuidadella where a tourist office provided a lot of useful information. Some just roamed.
I explored the town hall, a former fort, and found a stunning view of the harbor. From there I wandered into the town square across the street and spotted a shop called Mia and Company. I was heading toward it when I heard Sue call my name. An avid cyclist, she was checking out bike rentals. I did not feel up to riding a bike with my left knee unreliable. She went off in search of two wheels and I went to my store.
I came out with a woven cotten cape? Coverup? In pink and green stripes. The saleswoman wrapped it so nicely I put it in my luggage and nobody on the trip ever saw it. I went around the corner and paid admission to tour the mansion that the shop was built into. After viewing displays of antique opulence I made my way out and wandered up the street where I bought a latte and a muffin in a tiny shop. Thinking I might walk out to that stone tower at the port entrance I started along the street, but I heard my name behind me and stopped at a shaded bench. Bob and Mary Ann joined me and we sat and chatted for a bit, until one of us said, “how about lunch?”
We found a touristy restaurant with seating in yet another square — this one full of pine trees. We all ordered personal pizzas — certainly not local food, but they were tasty and I couldn’t believe I ate all of mine. We wandered a little after that, spotting a bank with a familiar name and ATM. Bob was supposedly in search of the grocery store, but when I looked it up it seemed like a long walk. We all succumbed to afternoon lethargy and returned to our boats.
We scattered in groups for dinner that evening at various restaurants. Once again finding good food for reasonable prices. As it came time to pay, Al wanted the waiter to put his share on his credit card. They don’t do that. The most they would do was split the bill in half on two cards. He was frustrated, not getting his way. I said, you have euros, I made a point of people giving you cash at lunch the other day. “Oh, I gave the cash to the waiter and put my share on my credit card.”
First showing up not knowing where he was going, then not having any euros or the means to get them? Then not keeping the cash he got from others? I was so done.
Day three, same weather conditions, same decision: we stayed another day. Several of us decided to get a taxi to a nearby ancient burial mound. We had spotted the taxi stand in the Placa de Senplaxada (square with the pines), so we headed there and got two taxis for the five of us. En route I downloaded the local taxi app (I’d given up and let my phone use international data and calling as my hotspot continued to be unreliable. Cost be damned.). The taxis dropped us at a rustic kiosk attended by a young woman who sold us all “senior” tickets and instructed us not to approach the cows as we followed the path to the site because the cows “are animals.” Uh huh, they sure are. Across a meadow we could see several handsome brown cows grazing.
We examined a shelter with benches and a display about the burial site’s construction and purpose. Then we set off down the dirt path, not going near the cows. The site is an elongated dome of stones with a small entrance at one end. Somewhat more modern bars prevented entrance but we could see that the interior space was much smaller than the exterior and the walls were very thick. A sign clearly prohibited climbing up the mound. Yeah, not even slightly tempted. After exploring and photographing we started back along the path, discussing how to summon taxis — I had given up trying to create an account on the app I’d downloaded. Al said he’d ask the woman at the gate to call for us and went ahead at a brisk pace. Until he saw the cows. A group had grazed their way through a stand of trees to stand right on the path.
“Did anyone tell the cows not to touch us?” I wondered as we discouraged Al from trying to edge past one beast, which was eyeing him with suspicion. I suspected that the cows were pretty docile and unlikely to charge us if we just walked past, but on the other hand, they did have horns.
Gradually they moved on and we slipped by. Somehow, and I honestly don’t know if Al had the woman call or it was just chance, two taxis turned up. I got in with Bob and Mary Ann, thinking we were all now going to a cave south of Cuidadella that offered tours. Al, Dave, and Hallie got in the other car, but then Hallie got out and came to our taxi and got in. She said Al and Dave were going back to the boats and she wanted to go to the cave.
Our driver dropped us on a suburban street next to a park, pointing across the park at a low building. We strolled over and found a group of Americans talking with an attendant in a modern building adjacent to a gated hole in the ground. I gathered from their discussion that tours were already booked — they were buying tickets for the following week. We stepped up and learned that the next tour in English was next Wednesday. It was clear that we were not going to be offered another option. So instead we asked for her recommendation for lunch. She first mentioned an Irish Pub. Perhaps our total lack of enthusiasm was clear. She mentioned another option, then said there was also a brand new restaurant next to the supermarket that she had not yet been to, but was run by people who’s other place is very good. We thanked her and set out up the street toward the main drag of this little suburb.
We spotted the grocery store (not at all a supermarket despite what it called itself) and the restaurant next to it. The patio was moderately crowded. We looked at the menu, which offered a wide variety of tapas, then waved at a waitress who pointed at a table in the shade.
Soon we had ordered more than enough tapas, some recommended by our waitress, some that just sounded good. She also helped us not over-order, reminding us that we would share and two orders of a hearty dish would be too much. It was a delicious, satisfying lunch with pleasant company. As we settled up I was very happy to be with a group of people who did not present payment challenges. Replete, we ambled along the promenade between restaurants toward the ocean. This seemed to be a suburb full of rental units and vacation homes. Shops sold beach gear and the supermarket had the sort of inventory you need when you arrive at your beach house and need to pick up food for breakfast and picnic lunches. It also had souvenirs. There was no beach, just a rocky bluff looking out at the sea where whitecaps foamed in the strong breeze. We were south of Cuidadella, but could see the stone tower at the harbor entrance. We read plaques about the local wildlife, then made our way back toward the street where the taxi had dropped us. Bob was sure he’d seen a taxi stand sign there when we arrived. Sure enough, we weren’t there long before a taxi pulled over.
Once again the crews broke into mixed groups and went to dinner at the various restaurants. On my boat, I knew Bridget had planned a couple dinners, one of which we’d had the first night. But she was off exploring all day and never raised the subject of cooking something. To be fair, neither did I. The local food was so good that I, for one, wanted to experience it. This particular evening I found myself maneuvered into dining with Al as other tables with our folks filled up. To be clear, Al is a nice guy and pleasant company, I was just fed up with his stated “If I don’t do things last minute I don’t do them at all” attitude — whatever that actually means. But it’s what he said when I asked why he flew to Spain not knowing where he was going.
As we ordered and consumed our dinner I felt like I was at a job interview. He even asked me where I saw myself in five years. The dinner dragged on, and eventually Sue and a couple others from other tables came over, having settled up and wondering if we were ready to go. They lingered as we got our waiter’s attention and asked for the check. And we watched him make rounds of other tables, always hurrying, but never producing our check. Finally Al suggested I go ahead with the others, he’d settle up — he still owed me from the AirBnB and it was about the right amount. I accepted the proposal. I also took back a container of the squid ink risotto that I couldn’t finish.
The next morning the weather report had not changed, but remarkably, nobody on the crews was complaining about staying here. Sure, there were some wishes to sail, but nobody became irate. Almost. I learned through the grapevine that one of my crew did grumble about coming on a sailing trip and not sailing. But the person who reported this to me also said the complainer had later said “I was being grumpy, I didn’t mean it.”
It was Thursday, and everyone knew that we would definitely leave tomorrow, we had to get the boats back to Pollença. Some went to the beach south of town, some wandered, some just relaxed. I headed back up into the old town to visit the archaeological museum, the cathedral, and a cloister housing the cathedral museum. I ran into Dave and Hallie at the archaeological museum, but was otherwise on my own to explore at my own pace. Having logged a lot of steps I ambled back to the boat and settled in with a beer and my leftover risotto in the cockpit.
Bob and I had one important chore we’d been putting off — we had to get cash to pay Sophiie. He went to the bank and used his debit card and the club’s debit card to get a bundle of cash (he’s the treasurer). Then I went an was surprised to be able to take out 600 euros with my debit card. Between Bob and I we were still 200 euros short, so Hallie went and got that.
On our last morning I realized we were still dealing with a dozen eggs in the fridge and said we need to cook these for breakfast — we won’t have time to cook breakfast tomorrow, we have to be off the boat by 8:00. Bridget set about cooking eggs, and was heard to say she’d been ordered to cook the eggs this morning even though she bought them for some other meal. I’d forgotten her menu plan by then, and since she had not raised the topic herself all week, I hardly felt it was fair of her to complain about my breakfast decision. She could have said she wanted to make the other dish for dinner that night! I hate passive aggressive, unless I’m the one doing it.
All three boats got off the wharf before noon and set sail for Pollença. It was a great sail, with a steady breeze almost the entire way. We finally got into confused air in the bay off of the huge estate. We dropped the sails and I made for the marina entrance, which was much closer to the beach than I remembered. As I edged up to the fuel dock I saw the charter company guys waiting. We took on fuel and they sent us around the corner to our spot on the wharf. They asked if I needed help and I hesitated for second, then said “No, I need to do this.” If that sounded odd to them they didn’t say anything. It was true, though. I’d had a terrible experience docking a huge catamaran back in January, and I needed to remember my confidence and skill. So I did. No problem. Also, they were on the wharf shouting orders to back up more, or go forward, or whatever, and handing my crew the lines.
And at last we were back to Mallorca.
Packing was important as we had to get off the boat by 8:00. The charter guys came aboard and inspected the boat, raising the. main sail, unrolling the jib, and even starting the dinghy motor we had not used. They went over their checklist with me to confirm we had not lost or damaged anything. They pumped the heads and ran the faucets. It was a very thorough checkin. They pointed to some gel coat damage outboard of the starboard stern cleat. I had not see it before we left, nor had we been in any situation where it could have happened. In the end nothing came of it — perhaps they found record of it having already been there.
To my disappointment, the restaurant off our stern that we’d enjoyed several times was fully booked for the evening. I went with Dave and Hallie to the other restaurant on the wharf, which had a large indoor dining room. Another group from our boats turned up there too. It was as good as all the other places we’d been. The twins had gone in search of a restaurant with gluten free food — Bridget had an app for that.
Saturday morning was as chaotic as the previous one — offloading luggage, cleaning out the fridge and freezer, all the cabinets, double checking all cabins… The charter guys were there to help offload, more because they needed to get aboard and start preparing the boats to go back out than out of kindness to their guests. All our luggage was piled over near the restaurant. Taxis started arriving to collect groups headed for the airport or other lodging. Goodbye photos and hugs were had. Finally it was just me, Sue, and Denise, and I could finally consider my job as trip leader done. I left them with our bags and walked down the wharf and over a couple blocks to the car rental agency — not the same one I’d used at the start.
I was informed by the young man in the office that they had waited for me yesterday. After my Assistant Trip Leader cancelled his car due to his ankle, I’d booked a big van because we thought there would be five of us all going to that airport hotel. Then one person backed out the week before the trip due to illness, and then “Carmen” had to cancel. So I had cancelled the big van and rebooked a smaller vehicle for the three of us remaining.
Well, somehow I’d booked the smaller car for Friday through Sunday morning, not Saturday through Sunday morning. And then not shown up to get it. Had I known, I could have come and gotten it — it could have stayed on the wharf overnight. Fortunately, they had another vehicle available. I drove back out the wharf to get luggage, Sue, and Denise. It was nice to spend time with people I hadn’t sailed with.
I said I wanted to go to the Dragon Caves that we’d not sailed to. They were fine with that. But as we set out I saw a sign for the Roman ruins at Alcudia and made an executive decision. I had also wanted to visit those when we went to Alcudia Thursday night. We actually could have sailed from Cuidadella to Alcudia on Thursday, but as with every other marina, if they didn’t have room inside for us, we’d have rocked and rolled all night.
We found the ruins with minimal backtracking and parked in the dirt lot among a lot of other cars. The gates stood open, so we entered and were examining a big map of the site when a man came striding up saying “No, no, closed. Please go…” and gesturing toward the gate. We and a couple other people looked startled, and disappointed, but complied with his orders. He shut the gate behind us. We walked back to the car, then I drove around the lot to a fence through which we could see the excavated ruins. We stood looking for a few minutes until the rising heat drove us back into the car.
Onward to the dragon caves.
Sue navigated us with her phone, which took us on two or three suspicious roads — one of which was blocked so we had to backtrack. But it got us to the outskirts of Porto Cristo where we saw signs to the caves. Lots of signs. This place was much grander than I expected — a lot grander than the little cave south of Cuidadella.
I parked in another dirt lot with many trees making aisles interesting. The ticket office and entrance plaza could accommodate several busloads, although it did not seem like there were any there at the moment, just a lot of families. We bought tickets for the 12:00 tour — I had not realized they were on a schedule, and we were fortunate not to have to wait a couple hours for the next one. We used the facilities, glanced at the gift shop, then headed for the cave entrance as it was 11:50.
Disney has nothing on these guys: we got into a zig-zag line just like we were waiting for a rollercoaster. Finally our tickets were checked and we descended down steps into the cave. And down more steps. And more. I wondered if there a chance of an elevator back up and doubted it. But it didn’t matter, the cave was astonishingly beautiful. Even with all the people shuffling along, stopping to take pictures, gawking, talking, and being in the way, it was still amazing to see the stalagtites and stalagmites artfully lit. Some where huge, many were dainty. They cast menacing shadows and stood in the far distance under spotlights. Finally we got to the lowest level where an underground river is lighted from below, creating dragon forms of the sunken rock formations.
Denise kept asking, “Is that the dragon? Is that the dragon?” as we saw new formations. I said I thought there was no one dragon, that you could see them anywhere you looked. I’m not sure she quite got the imagination requirement.
The crowds thinned as we walked, following a paved path with guardians at the turns shining flashlights at rough spots. Eventually we found out why the crowd had thinned — we were shepherded into an underground amphitheatre where many of the lower benches were already full. We climbed up and up until we found space to sit.
After announcements in about ten language telling us the lights were going to go off and no flash photography, it went dark. And then the lighted boats came around a corner, two with just an oars man and the third with a quartet. Strings of white lights around the combings were the only light as the musicians started to play, then colored lights went on and off around the cavern in time with the music.
It was absolutely enchanting.
They floating musicians played four classical pieces from various genres and composers before being rowed out of sight and into darkness again. After the applause died down the lights came back on and the announcement in many languages told us we could walk to the exit, or we could wait for a boat ride.
Well hell, what else do we have to do? We could see more of the rowed boats lining up to come to a dock not far from us and take on about twenty passengers each. So we waited, inching down the slope of the amphitheatre until, finally, we were able to board. I was concerned about getting down into the boat, and back out, but I realized I was not the most handicapped person there. There were sturdy hand holds and crew to help.
It wasn’t a long ride, but it was still a lovely conclusion to the visit. The climb back up was hard and I had to rest a few times. Sue stuck with me, but Denise went on ahead — which I did not mind at all, I never want to be the one holding others up. We visited the gift shop again, this time buying some t-shirts and, for me, a lovely scarf.
It was definitely time for lunch. I studied Google maps and identified a restaurant near the beach that seemed good, and seemed to have parking. Gotta love the satellite view. I had no trouble finding it and parking on the street. It was a little more challenging to understand the parking meter, but we managed. Perched on a rocky cliff overlooking the entrance to Porto Cristo, the restaurant offered a spectacular view from the deck where we were seated. We ordered hearty lunches and relazed looking out across the channel that we were supposed to have sailed into, and then at the crowded marina that we had not trusted to accommodate us.
Finally we ambled back to the car and I pointed it toward the airport. We were all tired, as I could tell from the closed eyes of my passengers. My eyes wanted to close, too and I had to bite my lip and pinch myself a few times to stay alert. Sue navigated us to the hotel, although I kind of knew where to go from my previous visit. I stopped outside the front door and they unloaded all the luggage, then went in. Sue came back out and got my passport and credit card to check me in. I could not leave the car, I was blocking half the narrow street.
Sure enough, while I waited, a bus came up behind me. I had no choice but to pull off the sidewalk, and go around the corner. I went all around the long block and came back to the same spot. And waited. Until another bus came. I repeated the drive around the block, only to be honked at by a cute little tourist train (on tires). That time I drove around the corner and found a spot to pull over — no parking, but I wasn’t getting out, so… After a while I saw Denise in my rear view mirror looking for me. She spotted me and brought me my passport and credit card, saying my key was at the front desk. I told her I was going to return the car. I’d be back as soon as I could, but don’t wait for me if you want to do something.
And then I drove to the airport. And drove around the airport. And around it again. I foolishly did not get gas at the first station I saw, so after circling the airport I had to go back into the surrounding area to a gas station, then find my way back onto the airport road. I knew I needed to get into the parking garage, a seven story monster right across from the terminal. I read and re-read the rental agency’s directions, but could not match them to reality. I could see the garage, had walked to it when I arrived last week. But I could not find the right lane to get to it now. Twice I drove up to the departures area, taking a card from a parking gate at the entrance, then having the gate at the other end open for me because, I presume, I had not been there long enough to be charged. I went out of the airport complex and back in. Months later when I told this story to crew on another sailing trip, one of them said “Oh yes, I’ve done that…” which made me feel less incompetent.
At last I found the way in to the garage and drove up and up the winding ramps to the sixth level as directed. I turned into row A, as directed, and saw a woman in a safety vest driving a miniature concrete zamboni — a machine she stood on and drove around apparently polishing the garage floor. She sput it around and glared at me, gesturing for me to get off her clean floor. It was too much. I burst out laughing as I backed out of row A and turned down row B. I soon realized it was hopeless, there wasn’t an open space anywhere on level 6. The instructions said if that happened, to go to leve 5, row A. So I drove down a level and realized that all across the ceiling were red lights indicating no open spaces. Finally I spotted a green light, far from row A. I took it. I took a picture of the car, license plate and space number visible, and I dropped the keys through the narrow space I’d left above the driver’s window. Then I rode escalators down to the ground and walked to the terminal and the taxi stand where I did not have long to wait, despite what seemed like a long line — seems most of them were waiting for Ubers or something.
Back at the hotel I asked the desk clerk for my key. He said he did not have it, my friend did. They’d given me their room numbers, so I went up to our floor and knocked on the first door I came to — Denise’s. She didn’t have my key, Sue did, but Sue might have gone to the beach. I was about ready to cry, I was so tired. I was waiting for the elevator to go back down to the lobby — if Sue was out, she would have to come that way — when Sue came down the hall. She had not gone to the beach, but she did not have my key. She had dropped it in the box at the front desk. We went back down and the receptionist said he didn’t realize she’d done that as he opened the box and found my key.
It was a qirky room — tiny, but with a balcony. But the balcony was on an airshaft with a view of an air conditioning unit. The bathroom had a tub wedged into a slot so I had to climb in on the end over the faucets, or on the side between it and the toilet.
It didn’t matter. I flopped onto the bed and lay there drinking water for a while. ASuenn and Denise had gone to the beach, but I just couldn’t. I wish I had, and gone one for a final swim. But I did not have it in me. Later we walked to the beach to a touristy restaurant for overpriced tapas that was still pretty good. Sue and Denise said the receptionist had told them, as they set out for the beach earlier, to watch their bags. Yeah, it was that kind of beach. But then, we’re all seasoned travelers accustomed to navigating this kind of area.
There was far too much discussion as we walked back about which of us had breakfast included with our rooms (me and Denise) and what time to leave for the airport. Finally at the front desk Sue asked the receptionist’s advice and he ordered our taxi and confirmed the breakfast arrangement. Denise was concerned that Sue needed breakfast. Sue was not — she’d get something at the airport. This seemed to trouble Denise.
In the morning I found Denise in the basement dining room and joined her for coffee, pastries, badly cooked eggs and a piece of bacon. I would not have minded airport food. But they did have a Nutella dispenser, and Nutella on mini croissants is heaven.
Sadly, I did not get an upgrade on my return flight. The plane was full to the brim. But going West is always easier, so I did not mind too much. Arriving at Newark at mid-day in June was pleasant, and the parking shuttle got me to my car efficiently.
This trip created many memories that I’ll carry with me forever, from the concerned pizza shop owner to circling the airport, exhausted. Not enough sailing, but unexpected exploration of new places. I had only three or four souvenirs — the pink and green wrap, a refrigerator magnet shoe from the “supermarket” south of Cuidadella, two t-shirt from the dragon cave, and the scarf from there. Weeks later when I strolled across the pool deck at home wearing my pink and green linen, one of my neighbors said it was lovely and asked where I got it.
“Spain!” I said with a smile.
“I knew it wasn’t from around here!”
