I'm in the top bunk of the cabin on the starboard side with a inward window that looks out onto the floor of cockpit. For the heat, the window is always open, despite it bringing in the noise of the two on shift.
My shift is third and final shift of the night, starting 0500h, but I'm woken by some noise from the deck at 2300h or so. I can't make out exactly what's happening, but I sense that something isn't quite right. I'm listening to try and work out if it's a fatal problem, but I don't hear any overt panic or terror, so I guess it's just a standard manouvere - tacking or jibing; a sail going up or a sail going down.
I'm woken again, this time Manu is at the door of the cabin. He tells me something's broken and we're making an emergency stop. Everyone is called up on deck.
It's a little after One in the morning and apparently the main sail has ripped in half. Skipper, Jean-Pierre, has decided we're coming into Tangier, Morocco. The sail is already down, concertinaed and tied onto the boom, but I can see a frayed tear on one part of it. I'm not entirely surprised by the sail tearing. Both the main and the jib sail must be at least five years old. Both are stained brown, more so in patches, and their age is most apparent along the creases, where they've been folded up and carelessly left to rot. Our crippling leaves me more relieved than anything. Back on land, we'll have time to sort out our increasing number of noticeably broken and missing parts.
As we come into the large harbour at Tangier, we soon find that this isn't a marina like those we came from. Back at Rota and Barbate, we'd been parked up in a pontoon mooring alongside tens of other leisure yachts. Looking for a space amongst our potential neighbours here, the crowd is commerical fishing vessels, a pair of military cruisers and a FastCat ferry. We're really not meant to be here.
For lack of choice, the skipper picks the dockside space behind two vessels of the Moroccan naval fleet. My crewing speciality is the leap from boat to dock or pier as the skipper brings her in, so delicately as possible. The challenge is usually in the distance - the earlier you can make the jump, the faster you can get a rope and secure the tub to the dock, without the skipper having to plow in and bounce off the fenders. In this case, it's all the more fun because the water line is low against solid concrete dock. Thankfully, Jean-Pierre is perfectly competent at the helm. I'm able to make a small hop, then a scramble up onto the dock to run up and down securing the Valentina's bow and stern. Before I can get my knot tied, I'm pointed to a young Moroccan serviceman who's emerged from one of the cruisers. At a glance, I'm pretty sure we're not welcome here, but French speaking Manu is soon alongside having the conversation. My distant hopes of tying a knot, eating some leftovers and getting back to bed quickly go up in smoke.
After being politely dispatched from the naval dock, we're coming into the opposite dock behind a raft of steel fishing vessels, all of which are three-, four- or five- times our size. The air is thick with the smell of fish and an increasing drizzle. Whilst one lone fisherman is keen to help us, several more appear in a nearby doorway with expressions mixed between disgruntled and menacing. We're assured that another fishing vessel will arrive at any time and will be looking for this spot. We're out.
The rain moves up through the gears, upto torrential - African torrential. A short circuited light fitting on one building is periodically shooting blue sparks. Our friendly fisherman guides Jean-Pierre and I through the network of aging dockyard buildings to find a space to park up for the night. There's no way over nor around the fresh, wide, and ankle deep puddles and pools. Shoes and socks are soon entirely saturated.
As Skipper gently brings us in alongside another fishing vessel, I'm calculating how far I can jump, what I can grab on the opposite boat, and likelihood that I'll slip and fall down into the dirty brown brine between the closing gap of two steel boats. I'm very pleased with my distance as I land and climb over to secure us. I feel my arm grabbed and turn to find a big fat hairy old Moroccan, who proceeds to oust us once again.
Closing on Four AM, we make our fourth parking manoeuvre. Manu makes the first leap from the stern. He catches the rope to secure us, but Valentina is pulling away. For a moment, I'm admiring the heroic scene of Manu holding a twenty-five ton wayward steel yacht on a twelve millimetre rope, then rush to jump over at our bow to join him. The cabin lights switch on in the boat we're parking alongside and I see a face appear at the window. The face disappears and the light goes out. This time we're finally given mercy.
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