What do you do with three weeks to burn on a sailboat in the Spanish Mediterranean?…well go to Ibiza of course. Four shifty and often windless days after casting off from Gibraltar we wiggle our way into an anchorage just off from the city, and join the ranks of what appears to be half of Europe’s boat-owning population.

It’s partying reputation aside, Ibiza Town is gorgeous. Miles of narrow winding streets, a massive fort and cathedral atop a hill that overlooks cliffs falling into the sea, and endless tapas with wine at outdoor cafes. There’s clothing-optional beaches where the rich and famous maintain their tans, and plenty of boutique shops filled with tempting treasures for any woman who doesn’t live on floating shoebox.

But hey, if you do make it all the way to Ibiza, why not go out dancing? Arrive at the club around two in the morning already properly pre-funked, otherwise chasing a buzz with the entry level beverage—a 25-Euro beer—will leave a crater in your wallet. But fear not, Ibiza attracts the most talented DJs on the planet so you won’t have any trouble shakin’ dat boo-tay ’til after sunrise.

Now, what if you live in Northern Europe, are on holiday, and have friends with a sailboat in Ibiza…you join them of course! Exactly two years prior we hosted our amicable Dutch friends Joost and Hasrat in the Florida Keys, which means they already know the ropes and we are delighted for a repeat chance this time with even more time and in new waters.

The Balearic islands (of which Ibiza is one of four) should be visited however possible, but they seem to have been especially formed just for boats. The coastline of each island is riddled with countless nooks, coves, and crannies. Stunning cliffs plummet straight into the penetrating azul seas where the clarity seems rarely disturbed. True, there are not a ton of fish left (especially any that are bigger than your hand), but that doesn’t mean that there isn’t still a lot to see under the water. Both our guests love getting wet and we have a dive compressor on board, so we all spend plenty of time in the water.

At the head of many of these little coves are perfect crescent beaches, and around such beaches spring up quaint little villages. Although quite busy during these summer months, such places make for great day stops where you can stretch your legs ashore and find an ice cream or espresso—or both, or two of both—before moving on to the next nook.

Now with crew, Clare and I are able to get some joint-sleep during the overnight passage from Ibiza to Mallorca. Joost and Has keep the boat on course even if it does get a little blustery during the wee hours, at least they get to feast their eyes on a night sky at sea. Frankly, with the amount of motoring required in the Mediterranean we are glad for whatever wind we can get.

Mallorca offers more of the same cruising, but the cliffs seem even higher and the waters even bluer—postcard perfect. We opt to rent a car and spend a day exploring the sights ashore. Picture windy mountain roads lined by olive grooves and wine vineyards that are overseen from hand-hewn stone houses which are nestled into small valleys or perched atop proud hillsides. If it wasn’t for the blacktop on the road, it’d be easy to believe we stepped a few hundred years back in time.

We end the day in the capitol city, Palma, and Clare won’t stop taking photos at ever turn along the tight, maze-like streets of old-town, which showcase an intricate fusion between things European, Arabic, ancient, and modern. There’s a massive ornate cathedral next to a jarring modern art museum. The hypnotic tiles of a Moorish bathhouse share space with Carthaginian ruins, and all of this is backdropped by a luxury cruise ship moored in port. We barely scratch the surface during the few hours we have, but fortunately Hasrat books us reservations at the city’s most recommended paella restaurant thus ensuring a delightful first-time cultural experience for me.

Our final days have us circle the small off-lying island and national park of Dragonera. We anchor for the night, prepare dinner, and are in the midst of a night cap when Champagne swings around on her anchor and begins bouncing off an uncharted rock that rises from over 5-meters of depth to less than 2! We get the anchor up as quickly as possible and motor a mile across the channel to a government mooring field and grab a ball just as the clock ticks over midnight. Check the bilge…no water seems to be intruding. Phew, well let’s finish that nightcap, hit the hay, and we’ll further inspect the boat in the morning.

But then three hours later we are startled awake once more by the heinous sounds of boat-crunching…WTF?! I race up to the deck and find Champagne entangled with a much larger motor yacht. There’s a similarly-aged guy aboard the neighboring deck—also clad only in boxer shorts—and we both clamber to keep our boats at bay. Turns out that our neighbor’s government-mooring failed and sent their boat adrift. My bow-buddy awoke just as confused and surprised as I. By this time more hands are on deck, the motor yacht gets her engines running, the useless pennant lines are freed from the errant ball, and the boat slips off into the night. Everyone returns to bed while I dally a bit longer on deck and watch the untethered mooring ball drift out to sea. Shit, I realize, in all of the darkness, confusion, and broken Spanlish I never even got the boat’s name.

By the time we are finally cognizant later that day the motor yacht is gone, and since we tied-up to our mooring in the middle of night and without paying, the staff are reluctant to be of much assistance. Ah well, all’s well that end’s well. Miraculously, Champagne only suffers a few superficial scratches, and much more importantly, everything below the waterline looks in good order. Just a little scuffle is all.

So instead we spend the rest of the day basically between a big glamorous late lunch at a local restaurant and lying on the beach with a cooler of beer, the later of which helps to numb an irritable jellyfish sting I incur while cooling off in the water. The fact that kids across the beach are scooping their gooey remains from the water with sand shovels should have been warning enough.

We play dominoes that final night together, but only Joost and I are willing to maintain the charge and proceed to more or less polish off a lovely bottle of scotch they gifted us. The girls, who “wisely” chose not to drink, are very unsympathetic the next morning. We say goodbye to our guests who must fly back to Holland, and then set about readying the boat for an overnight passage to Barcelona. Headache or no, the important thing is we all make it to where we need to be.

To sharing the bounty.