As a white boy licking an ice cream cone in the city square, he’d pass as any other Western tourist, relieved to be away from a lockdown at home and eager to soak in the sunny skies and azul waters of SW Turkey. But take a second look and notice that he’s sitting next to a bicycle, one equipped with a hefty rear rack and basket, which is holding five bags of kitty litter, a bag of fresh fruit and veg from the weekly market, and another basket is hanging from the handlebars brimming with an assortment of plumbing parts and coils of rope. What sort of holiday-maker would concern himself with such items? Just the type that Clare and I find ourselves being once more…not quite tourists, not quite locals, definitely foreigners.
Oh and yes, we now have bikes…and a cat.
After nearly 12 months of Australian lockdown of course we’re eager to get back to our boat in the Med, but two things in particular precipitate this decision in February 2021. One, the nice friends who are loaning us use of their vacated house now need it for their family; and two, Melbourne is hosting the Australian Open tennis tournament–the first such international sporting event sense COVID–and we’re weary that the city will once again go into deep freeze leaving us stuck like ice cubes in an upside down tray.
Although entering Australia from abroad is as difficult as cracking a safe and as expensive as what you hope to find inside, getting out of Aus is no walk in the park either. First you have to petition the government for just cause of departure–fortunately, owning a boat on the other side of the globe that needs attention got the pass. Second, you have to find a carrier willing to sell you a ticket–even though the planes are largely empty, regulations about allowing passengers are strict. Third, and finally, you have to arrange for a perfectly timed COVID test–you must receive a negative result in-time to board your first flight, but not so early that 72-hours transpire before landing your final flight, potentially denying you entry to your intended destination…no small feat when flying 15,000 km across 9 different time zones.
After two hours of painstakingly checking all our paperwork and inspecting all our luggage, we’re finally on the plane where we walk past a deserted first class, then past a deserted business class, and then past row after empty row of a deserted coach class only to be shown our seats at the very back of the plane, where the entirety of the plane’s 50 passengers, and all ten flight staff, have been assembled in tight formation…so much for social distancing. No matter, I make good use of the abundant pillows and blankets and settle into a deserted row of seats somewhere near the middle of the plane, and experience my best sleep ever on a flight.
After celebrating Clare’s birthday from the comfort of an AirBnb in Kas, it’s time to finally re-board Champagne…the home we haven’t touched in 18-months. The joy of our return is quickly overwhelmed by the reality of stagnation and neglect–the toilet needs a tickle, none of the faucets are working, the fans are dead, and we need a storage locker to make room for all our new stuff. But make no mistake, buying bicycles within the first week of our return remains our best decision yet. What used to be a 20-minute walk into town to buy groceries or pick up some screws from the hardware store is now a 5-min bike ride, and the bikes do all the heavy lifting of bringing it home…especially because they are electric-assist!
So just as we are regaining a feel for living aboard, we decide there’s no time like the present to finally tackle that new paint job we’ve been talking about for years, and pull our trusty steed from the water and prop her up on dry land.
Before hauling out on April 1st–what fools–I conceded to hire out the dirty work (sanding and repainting the toxic antifouling bottom paint and meticulously time-consuming topside paint), but then brashly change my mind after seeing just how bad our bottom is and hearing various reports concerning the poor-workmanship of the boatyard staff. Coincidentally, I make quick friends with another boat worker (an independent guy not with the boatyard), and after an hour of talking shop about the mechanics and chemistry of epoxy paint my juices are fully flowing and there’s no turning back. How can I stand by and watch someone else do work I used to get paid to do, and which in all probability will result in an inferior job at an exboranant price?
“Sorry honey, but those other jobs we were going to do in the meantime are just gonna have to wait…I can’t pay to watch someone butcher our boat, and in fact we have the beginnings of degrading water intrusion (osmosis) that requires extra care, just the sort of care I can provide with the help of my new boat buddy, Volkan, who is happy to sell me the needed material at cost. Oh yeah, and he has a compressor and knows how to spray polyurethane paint (look at that boat he did over there), so it looks like we won’t need to hire the boatyard staff at all!!”
So what was supposed to be a clever double-header–boat being painted by the yard, leaving me to help Clare with the sails and roller furler–turns into me taking on the whole now-even-bigger project solo. This forces Clare to change gears and start rebuilding our shade canvas all while stuck on a boat propped 4 meters in the air that is vibrating and humming from 8-hours-a-day of sanding and grinding. Not exactly a sexy picture, “but at least it’s April and not July,” I offer as a tepid condolence.
If you’re reading between the lines here then perhaps you can infer some misguided intentions, angry conversations, and wounded feelings. It is a very difficult time and in large part we are living independent lives. We sleep in different beds, and after an early alarm and quick breakfast I’m off the boat to spend my days below the hull with power tools whirling and epoxy resin swirling, either way ending each day at sundown covered in something. Clare gets up sometime after my departure and turns the cabin into a sewing closet, rolls of fabric stacked in pyramids, the 25-kg sewing machine continually hoisted up on the table when needed and then lowered down under it again when in the way, and snippets of thread found clinging to all corners of our upholstery.
She certainly provides more meals than I, but more often we grab takeaway wraps from a nearby restaurant in town, order a delivery pizza, or on a few rare occasions sit-in at our favorite marina restaurant, which is somehow allergic to lockdown restrictions. Afterwards, maybe we watch a show on the laptop with a hot cup of tea, or else we’re perusing color swatches to determine Champagne’s new look, or reading manufacturing data files on epoxy barrier coat options. Our nerves are high, and all conversation is terse. Fortunately for me, I can sleep through an earthquake and so am not deterred by the boat being stood on a noticeable slope…not so for Clare, who finds getting a good night’s sleep much more elusive.
Graciously, two weeks into the haulout we receive some charity. A new friend from our dock, Francesco–who has been through repairing osmosis himself years ago–is returning to Italy to help his family “for at least six weeks” and gives us free reign of his boat while gone. Although we don’t use her everyday, Changda offers a welcome reprieve from the boatyard and sits as a ready sanctuary of retreat for either of us when feeling overwhelmed.
But if we’re not having a good time, at least no one else is either…daily curfew between 8 pm and 6 am is in full effect, most businesses remain completely closed throughout the weekend, at one stage there is a 17-day national lockdown shuttering most everything, even the beaches are off limits but it’s little loss because the sea is far too cold. In hindsight, it’s a perfect time to be hunkered down with boat projects, but when things don’t go according to plan and then balloon in scale, it leaves lots of room for frustration and fatigue. Our dream of a 2 week haulout turned into 2 months. And making joint decisions on things like paint and fabric colors, which should have been light-hearted and fun, are instead loaded with pent up resentment and unmet expectations.
Enter kitten.
We are speaking with a local friend one afternoon who mentions having 7 cats, “You want one?” Anna half-jokingly offers.
“No no no no,” I insist, “having a pet will only complicate our lifestyle.”
But then another week goes by and Clare happens to visit Anna at her office in town where there is a box in the corner with a single kitten remaining.
“Just take him until 5pm,” she tells Clare, no doubt knowing full well what will happen. “I’ll come pick him up after work.”
So Clare rides home with a kitten in her front basket, and a bag of food and one of litter in the back. He sleeps nestled between our pillows on the first night and hasn’t left the boat since. He’s only missed the litter box once, and when the boat was being lifted and moved to be placed back in the water he came outside to have a quick glance and then went back below for a nap. He’s completely fearless, even stands his ground against big dogs on the dock, and cocky-as because he’s yet to fall in the water. Apparently Anna is allergic only to kitten fur and so says that she’ll take him back after he’s neutered, but what are the odds of us voluntarily parting ways with him after a year?
No matter the outcome, Kismet (Turkish for fate) could not have come a day too soon, and is providing just the buffer and warm fuzzy distraction that Clare and I need.
So we get through the last few weeks of haulout with the help of a furball, Champagne is splashed on the 5th of June and in all likelihood will never look better. The yard quoted us 10k-Euro to paint the whole boat (and that was before discovering the osmosis), and in the end we did the whole thing ourselves (including two-days paid help from Volkan) for 4k-Euro. But alas, all those projects we were supposed to be licking while someone else painted the boat still need to be accomplished. So here we are, another month later, and none of our friends on the dock can believe we’re still at it. “The season is now,” they say, “you must stop working!” But we still don’t have a forestay (the wire that holds the forward sail and keeps the mast up), and you can’t cruise the Med without a bimini.
That said, there have been days off. We finally get to know some of our neighbors, there’s been a fetching daysail with an old friend, and I’m writing this now over a frosty drink at a bustling beach bar in our quaint seaside town which is now heaving with summer tourists. My birthday provided an opportunity to try out our new inflatable kayak and was a glorious day at the beach with a UN-sanctioned conglomeration of friends (out of the 10 of us there were 9 nationalities). And let’s not forget the countless hours we’ve happily lost laughing at the antics of our kitten, who definitely fancies himself a tiger and will no doubt try to eat us when full grown.
The final pieces are just about in place before we sail for the horizon and see if we still know how to enjoy a boat and each other. No matter that it is forbidden to sail to the Greek island that we can see from our dock, Turkey is open for business and the coastline looks as beautiful as ever. As official residents we’re now eligible for the vaccine, and our marina contract is paid till next spring. Can’t wait to be going nowhere fast.
