Our travel Blog

We were not disappointed. No less than six rainbows stretched across Dominica’s lush green mountains as we, the afternoon sun to the west and the southern part of the island to the east, slowly glided past northwards. Not only did the weather give us a damp cheerful welcome, but a group of small whales blew their own fountains of water towards the regular rain showers and accompanied us on our way to Roseau. Our stay off the streets of the bustling but less spectacular capital was short-lived, however. All entry formalities for private boats had been moved to Portsmouth, the island’s most north-westerly bay, because of the corona pandemic. For us, this meant another afternoon of sailing/motoring (curse Dominica’s high mountains and their far-reaching lee), half a day of boat quarantine, 80 euros for an agent to navigate us through the entry formalities, 100 euros for the rapid entry tests (both PCR tests, which we had obtained at great expense in Martinique, and the rapid tests had been removed from the entry requirements that very weekend), another half day of quarantine… and after almost three days we had finally made it. We had arrived and were looking forward to what would probably be the two most intense hiking weeks of our trip.

The anchorage area off Portsmouth is controlled by a well-organised, private conglomerate of taxi drivers, guides, fishermen and customs officials called PAYS. This group claims a monopoly on income from the sailing tourists who have been arriving rather sparsely due to the hitherto tough Corona regulations, but also offers correspondingly good services. After entering the country, PAYS organised a trip for us in a small wooden canoe on the Indian River. This quietly flowing nature reserve (in general, a good two-thirds of the island is a nature reserve), provides a perfect habitat for all kinds of crabs, iguanas, mangroves and Pirates of the Caribbean film crews. As we glided past the remains of Calypso’s hut, the water witch from the famous pirate movies, we felt alternately like Indiana Jones, Alexander of Humboldt and Jack Sparrow. Our boat trip ended a kilometre further inland at a small jetty overgrown with creepers. While we followed our guide along a narrow path, the edges of which were being planted with all kinds of colourful flowers by other PAYS employees, he regularly reached into the thicket left and right and pulled out lemongrass, star fruit, pineapple, basil, bananas or sage. The destination of our little hike was a jungle bar, where we passed the time with banana leaf origami, rum punch and dominoes, the latter of which seemed to have the only victory condition of banging the stones as loudly as possible on the table.

And the adventures didn’t stop there. The next day, in good Amadie tradition, we set ourselves the goal of climbing the highest mountain on the island, Mt. Diablotin. I don’t know how anyone could come up with the idea of not taking a rain jacket with them on a hike through the rainforest to a mountain whose summit is in the clouds nine days out of ten on the rainiest island in the Caribbean. In any case, some hiking group lmembers were completely soaked before the first hundred metres of altitude, but still euphoric. Even though the adventurous “pld Pooath” turned into a breakneck slide party and a murderous mud fight, the occasional climbing and crawling challenges over boulders and through metres of roots were great fun for everyone. Once at the top, we saw…nothing. But a lot of it. Especially a lot of grey cloud. Sometimes the way is the goal.

Scene change; fade in; day; inside: Tilman is standing at the cooker frying the usual hangover breakfast in the form of 50 extra-thick pancakes. About twelve hours later, even the last one has peeled himself out of bed and eaten a few hangover calories. We now felt we had seen everything important in the north (and couldn’t be seen again) and started a new attempt to explore Dominica’s south. Base camp for this was Roseau, the only other place where one is allowed to anchor apart from Portsmouth. Our first hike took us over the cloud-covered crater ridges around a freshwater lake in the centre of Morne Trois Piton National Park. 30% of Dominica’s energy is generated by hydroelectric power from such lakes. From there, a rainy trail led us to Trafalgar Falls, two twin waterfalls at the base of which hot springs bubbled out of the mountainside. For us, this was the perfect opportunity to have a spa day after the strenuous hike. Switching back and forth between the steaming sulphur pools and the cool streams was a refreshing treat that was only halted when darkness fell.

The only logical consequence was to make an excursion the next day to more hot springs, which this time did not flow into a waterfall but directly into the sea. The heated pool was only 30 centimetres deep, but you can enjoy your rum punch in the ocean much better lying down anyway. The only logical consequence of this, however, was then a recovery day from the recovery day. Only Jan and Saskia bravely tackled another hike into the heart of the island. Dominica’s most beautiful hiking trail, the Boiling Lake Tour, first leads a few kilometres through the well-known, wild rainforest. The further inland we went, the rougher and more inhospitable the landscape became. Deciduous trees gave way to crevices in the rocks, hazy misty patches to stinking sulphur fumes and crystal clear streams to boiling mud puddles. After three exhausting hours, the strong wind finally blew a gap in the warm vapour billowing towards us from all directions and a greyish, 100m wide lake spread out in front of us. Like an oversized pot of noodle water, it bubbled and boiled all over the water’s surface, a toe dipped into it painfully confirming the suspicion: we had reached Boiling Lake. Even though there had not been a volcanic eruption on Dominica for a long time – the volcanic forces are still extremely present here. On the way back from this last hike, Dominica bid us farewell with the obligatory tropical downpour. Partly we stood confused in front of small waterfalls, only to discover after some searching around that these had probably once been our way there. Very dirty, very wet and very happy, the whole crew gathered again together with Alex on the Amadie and planned our onward journey. 

It’s been a long time since we had such an intense sailing day as on the crossing to Martinique. Ever since we made the rude and far too close acquaintance with a Caribbean reef in Grenada, our policy has been not to anchor in the dark. This meant leaving St. Vincent at five in the morning to cover the 65 miles with an average speed of five knots to reach the French department with the last rays of sunshine. No sooner said than done. In the channel between St. Vincent and the neighbouring island of St. Lucia to the north, we made good progress, as planned. As the sharp peaks of St. Lucia became increasingly visible in the haze to starboard, we not only got a wistful feeling of having to skip this mystical-looking place due to time constraints, but also felt the wind swirls in the island’s shadow. For a few hours we worked regularly on the sails, making tacks, trimming backstay and sledges. With St Lucia behind us, Martinique was already looming on the horizon, but we had a new problem. During a tack, a genoa sheet had knocked a coiled halyard loose from the mast. The rope hung over the railing, was pulled under the boat and had wrapped itself around the propeller. No chance of starting the engine or cutting the rope loose in the swell. We hurried as fast as the winds could carry us into the wave shadow of Martinique. With the last light of day, our divers armed with knives went to work two miles offshore and freed the propeller. The sun had already set, only the nearest bay was still accessible to us and that too only under motor. Twenty minutes later, the anchor dropped on European underwater soil, the dozens of ships around us only grey shadows in the setting night. We had made it!

Our first challenge was to get used to a European lifestyle again after the pragmatic chaos of Grenada and St. Vincent. Streets, supermarkets, holiday homes, public buses, you could find it all the same as on the Côte d’Azur. Our first stop was the holiday flat of Jan’s mother Maike and stepfather Manuel, where we were warmly welcomed with barbecue food, salads and a washing machine. The dirty laundry of four sweaty sailors is a three-digit monthly cost factor that should not be underestimated, and we are glad of any opportunity to take advantage of a free wash. After a warm welcome, everyone moved into their cabins on the Amadie the next day. A visit to the supermarket near the harbour escalated into the biggest purchase since Spain. The French assortment was too tempting with more than one kind of cheese, real butter and affordable muesli.

Finally, on Sunday 13 February, we reached the capital, where it is very nice and easy to anchor directly in front of the wall of the imposing, name-giving fortress. A visit to the fortress and the rest of the city was very short, however, as 99% of all shops and establishments are closed on Sundays in the Caribbean and especially in Martinique. Even so, the impression we gained of the city was not overwhelming. A richly decorated church and library from the 19th century, a small park full of pedestals of some statues destroyed during recent protests, a few historic-looking wooden houses between their graffiti-distorted, stone neighbours – otherwise, the capital of Martinique really doesn’t have much to offer in terms of tourism. We quickly set sail and continued north.

The further we got from Le Marin, the more sparsely anchored the bays became, the fewer French families lined the beaches. The last hotspot to the north is the old capital St. Pierre. The town was completely destroyed in 1902 during an eruption of the nearby volcano Mont Pelée, 30,000 inhabitants died within three minutes and a dozen ships in the bay were sunk beyond repair. The ruins of some of the most massive old stone buildings can still be seen today – a theatre, a prison, a church, a warehouse. The stone ruins brought back memories of Pompeii. Today, however, the restored waterfront promenade once again invites visitors to take short walks, and one kilometre inland lies a rum distillery that can be visited free of charge. At the Depaz distillery, one can take a self-guided tour of the entire plant, where the most famous drink in the Caribbean is still pressed, fermented, matured in barrels and bottled in a highly professional and productive manner using steam engines, some of which are a hundred years old. The sweet smell of sugar cane hangs over the manicured grounds including the manor house in the shadow of Mont Pelée. The opportunity to enrich our impressive Caribbean rum collection with a local Martinique speciality. Of course, neither missed the opportunity to explore the fleet that sank during the volcanic eruption with our diving equipment. After 120 years, only the coral-covered hulls of the wooden ships remain, but the search for the isolated wrecks, these islands of life in an otherwise identical-looking, shimmering blue seaweed desert in all directions, was an eerie and at the same time entertaining adventure.

Our two most beautiful and last major explorations of Martinique took us first to the bay of Anse Couleuvre. Too far north to be completely protected from the Atlantic waves, few sailing boats make it to this dreamlike, unspoilt beach. Framed on both sides by high cliffs, in the shade of tropically overgrown sugar loaf mountains and overhanging palm roofs, this is the Caribbean at its best. For two days we snorkelled with turtles, built sand castles and hiked on well-maintained trails through the ruins of century old plantations and tropical forests along Martinique’s wild north coast.

The second excursion was to climb the island’s highest mountain, the infamous Mont Pelée. Unlike on St. Vincent, this volcano is well developed for tourism, and the paths to its summit are easily recognisable and marked. Still, it was damn strenuous. From the foot of the summit, it’s another 1,000 metres of steep uphill. Arms and legs are used in equal measure most of the time to climb over the numerous boulders that poured out of the volcano’s maw four generations ago. Wisps of clouds shoot over the ridges and every rock covered in lush green moss, ferns and bushes. The rugged, living mountain world, always shrouded in fibrous veils of mist, looks like the blueprint of a fantasy film setting. The strong wind constantly tore at the dense white wall, which finally capitulated and revealed the view of the miniature idyll that spread at our feet all the way to Fort-de-France, as if a model builder obsessed with the tropics had scattered all his trees and yards in a frenzy. The descent on the west side of the mountain soon turned from a scramble to an extended walk in the woods, at the end of which several litres of ice-cold drinks in a harbour bar were killed.

On 28 January, almost eight months after our departure from Croatia, we finally arrived in what is often described as the most beautiful region of the Southern Caribbean. The always reliable trade winds carried us swiftly north and into the Grenadines. This archipelago of 32 islands with just 17,000 inhabitants is the perfect bridge for sailors between the two main islands of Grenada and St. Vincent. Since Croatia, we had not sailed in a comparable region where we could see the next destination harbour, the next bay, the neighbouring island from our current anchoring position. The Grenadines promised island hopping at its best. And we were not disappointed.

But before we could set off for the absolute highlight of the Grenadines, we had to pay a short visit to Union Island again. Rumour has it that the holy grail, the El Dorado of every circumnavigator, the long-lost gold treasure of the Caribbean, awaited us there. On a yellowed sea chart, eaten away by salt water, we had discovered a thick red cross on a small workshop on the beach east of Clifton. After weeks of exhausting, tiring search that had driven more than one crew member to the brink of insanity, we had finally found him, our saviour „Jack the Mechanic“. Behind some wrecked cars, the mechanic had hidden an old, rotten dinghy in a crowded shed that was NOT losing air. A feature that is worth its weight in gold in the Caribbean, where no one sells a dinghy in working condition. Unfortunately, the seller, Jack, also knew this and, despite tough negotiations, extorted over 1,000 gold doubloons from us for the ten-year-old vehicle. What a pirate!

No matter. Bygones be bygones, outboard motor attached and off we went. Despite the steep price, none of us regretted the purchase. Not only did the new dinghy stay full to bursting, it is also a good half metre longer than our decrepit brig. That doesn’t sound like much, but our new dinghy comfortably fits six people with luggage, while in the old one not even four passengers could land ashore drily. The new vehicle was immediately put to the test with a trip to a bar that had been built up on a reef in the middle of the water a mile off Clifton. What better scenery to toast our newfound water mobility.

The next day, our sails pulled us to the archipelago of the Tobago Cays. This island cluster seems to have come straight off the cover of a travel brochure about the Caribbean. Behind a kilometre-long protective reef that breaks the waves coming in from the east, the perfect anchorage is found among a handful of islets overgrown with palms, cacti and shrubbery. The tiny islets spill out on all sides into white, shady, sandy beaches, from where stepping into the thirty-degree, crystal-clear water is not only an invitation, but a must. For three days we explored each of the paradisiacal islands and the offshore reefs inhabited by turtles and schools of fish, and spent some very nice evenings on board of some French sailing boats (by far the largest sailing nation in the Caribbean) and the Amadie – thanks to our ice cube machine.

We probably could have spent several weeks in the Tobago Cays, but our desire to explore (and Silas’ flight home deadline) drove us further north. The last stop before the main island of St. Vincent was on Bequia. As on the other Grenadine islands, we got the impression that the villages on St. Vincent and the Grenadines (SVG) are just as hospitable and idyllic as on Grenada, but overall a bit more run-down and simple. Spice trade and tourism do not seem to flourish here as in the evergreen neighbouring country. Nevertheless, we had fun exploring the main town of Port Elizabeth (there’s just something about these colonial town names) and the surrounding hills, walking and jogging. Of course, snorkelling a thirty-year-old shipwreck was not to be missed either. Even the previously completely inexperienced crew members can now marvel at the wonders of the deep sea at a depth of 10m without any problems or equipment. It is nice to clearly notice this training effect.

Day 2: Hike through the Mesopotamia Valley: This beautiful green valley is also known as the Garden of God or St Vincent’s Breadbasket. First by bus and then on foot, we crossed the gorge from the sea to the forested ridge in the middle of the island. To the left and right of the path, small fields were scattered everywhere, always interrupted by meadows, woods and occasional fruit trees. The plots, mostly cultivated by hand, were a prime example of sustainable, organic farming. At the end of the valley, we reached a botanical garden that was over a hundred years old. Like the vegetable fields, the gardens blended perfectly into the natural vegetation of the island. For several hours we wandered as if hypnotised through the varied greeery. It was hard to tell where the garden ended and the forest began, but we were always discovering a new secret, whether it was an enchanted waterfall, an ornate pavillon or one of the dozens of plants we had never seen before.

Day 6: Visit Dark View Falls: The last sheltered bay in the north of St. Vincent lies in front of the small, simple fishing village of Chateaubelair, which is framed on both sides by steep cliffs covered with palm trees and weed-plantations. Behind it rises the wild, pristine mountainous interior of St. Vincent. Deep gorges carved by volcanic activity and rivers are framed by rocky ridges shooting up almost vertically. The entire centre is covered with dense, impenetrable rainforest. Only via the river valleys can one reach the interior during the dry season. We followed one of these aisles to the Dark View waterfalls. Two twenty-metre high torrents pour into two small bathing places in the middle of an untouched jungle landscape, which can only be reached via suspension bridges and stairs cut into the mountain flank. The view back into the wild valley, with birds circling and liana-covered trees as tall as houses silhouetted against the mountain flanks in the evening sun, was one of the most peaceful and sublime of the whole trip.

Day 7: Climbing La Soufrière Volcano: Early in the morning we set off on one of the most challenging and exciting expeditions of our trip. We planned to climb to the top of the almost 1000m high and extremely active volcano from which St. Vincent was formed. Our “path” led us through several hundred metre wide, dried up river beds, which gave an impression of the flash floods during hurricane season, along a deserted beach, through a narrow gorge enclosed by volcanic rock and up a densely overgrown slope. After two hours we finally reached the first ridge where we followed densely overgrown trails over, under and through the undergrowth up the mountain. Suddenly we found ourselves in a forest full of dead, bleached white tree trunks, victims of recent volcanic activity. The scree slope that followed revealed an inhospitable, rugged landscape that grew greener and more vibrant as it descended towards the coast. An unprecedented lesson in practical terraforming. We struggled on through sudden torrential rain, 60km/h wind gusts, rubble and sulphur fumes and suddenly found ourselves at the rim of the crater. The whistling wind barely allowed a word to be said, but it quickly shredded the cloud cover that poked through the cauldron, revealing a gigantic vent, a kilometre in diameter, from which sulphur funmes were rising at several scar-like cracks. All that was missing was two hobbits passing by to throw a ring into the fires of the mountain.

There we were in Grenada Marina, back on dry land. There wasn’t much we could do for the amply damaged Amadie at the moment, so we left the boat in the trusting hands of Isaac and his team of mechanics, who estimated a week for repairs. Since some work also had to take place below deck, the crew could not remain on board during this time. Fortunately, our insurance company Pantaenius has a very generous accommodation policy, so a suitable alternative Airbnb for that week was quickly found.

But of course our thirst for action and our joy of discovery also drove us out to new adventures during these beautiful days. Several exciting excursions awaited us. A first jungle hike led us to a small farmers’ cooperative, who guided us in their spice garden through the countless applications of their medicinal and garden herbs. With one of the numerous and cheap minibuses, which are the main means of transportation on Grenada, we went to the northern tip of the island. There, an interesting tour of the Belmont Estate cocoa plantation awaited us. A friendly Grenadian introduced us to the process of chocolate production, from the growth of the cocoa pod to fermentation and drying of the beans to roasting and grinding of the cocoa powder. A small sample of the sweet end product and a national drink containing cocoa enriched with numerous spices were also part of the tour, as was an extremely talkative parrot fittingly named Rainbow. The colonial past of Grenadian spice and cocoa plantations was also discussed. We continued to a rum distillery between miles of sugar cane fields, separated from the sea only by a narrow strip of palm trees. Located in the middle of the rainforest and powered by a water wheel, this small factory surrounded by flowers looked like from another century. Of course, we did not miss the opportunity to buy the 75% final product and so far none of us has lost his eyesight. At most some taste buds. No regrets.

Two days later followed an adventurous jungle hike to the Concord and Annandale waterfalls. Several kilometers and similarly many hours we fought our way through the undergrowth on a small trail until we reached the small lake at the foot of the waterfall, completely sweaty but happy and impressed by the biodiversity of the deep green forest around us. This was followed by a wonderfully refreshing swim and a hasty escape back from the penetrating swarms of mosquitoes that had been lurking at the swimming hole only waiting for unsuspecting hikers. Two more excursions took us to two deserted beaches near our villa. In addition to juicy sweet mangoes, numerous of coconuts, and an abandoned beach bar, we unfortunately found some trash that had washed up on the beach and noticeably diminished the atmosphere of these otherwise paradise-like places. Although Grenada is still a very natural country, where the small houses of the inhabitants nestle unobtrusively along the few roads in the jungle, we came across several massive construction projects during our coastal walk, whose concrete facades stood in stark contrast to the lonely palm beaches.

It is not easy to reconstruct the following events. In any case, overtiredness and carelessness mixed with poor visibility in the dark, strong swell, wrong distance estimation, incorrect depth data on the nautical chart and lack of preparation of the entry course. Once again, it became clear how deadly routine can be when suddenly, at a distance from land that we thought was safe, the depth indicator at the helm suddenly jumped to three meters, two meters, half a meter. Stopping the engine and engaging reverse gear did nothing to help. The inevitable blow drove through GRP, wood, marrow and bone of the entire Amadie and her crew. But we hadn’t just run aground, we were stuck! While we frantically tried to unfurl the sails to reduce our draft by the resulting heel and to free the boat from the rocks by motor steering, the next waves rolled in inexorably. Each of these 1.50-meter-high breakers lifted us up a bit from the reef only to have us smash onto the rock again with the merciless force of gravity. Crew and equipment tumbled through the area. Waves broke over the bow of the sloping ship and washed over entire cabins below decks through the open windows. The first life jackets and distress flares were already being readied when, after what felt like a nightmarish eternity, the blow of the following wave suddenly stopped. We had broken free! Quickly all floor plates in the saloon were torn out and the keel bolts were inspected for water ingress. There were several cracks around the bolts, some as wide as a finger, but at least no water seemed to be getting in anywhere – well, except from Tilman’s bed, whose mattress had been completely flooded by a wave.

After this shock, we motored for almost four hours in a wide, sweeping arc (we didn’t want to put any further strain on the rigging) around the southern tip of Grenada to anchor north of St. Georges in a wide, shallow bay in 10 meters of water. Hardly any crew member and also guest Rebecca found more than a handful of hours of sleep that night. No wonder with the adrenaline level still pumping through everyone. However, we didn’t realize the true extent of the damage until the next morning when the first dives were made under the Amadie. Besides some noticeable scratches on the keel, our rudder had taken a big hit. The bottom 10 inches were completely shredded, and of course the rudder suspension was completely loose again.

After the usual entry formalities of Coronatest, passport and boat paper checks were cleared with the friendly harbor staff, we anchored in the sweeping Carlisle Bay on the south side of Bridgetown among a good dozen Scandinavian Atlantic travelers. Just as we maneuvered to our target position, the clutch failed to grip when we stopped. We could neither thrust forward nor backward! In a flash, the anchor was dropped on the spot. Replacement anchors and a tether to an underwater weight followed. Luckily, we lay stable and with sufficient safety distance between the surrounding ships. Despite this shock, no one was left on board the Amadie that first evening and we walked along the beach until we came upon a colorfully painted restaurant and toasted vigorously to the successful crossing.

Much more recommendable is actually the bay in front of Bridgetown. While Christmas was approaching, Jan used the time to catch up on his diving license. The rest of the crew didn’t have to be asked twice for an underwater adventure either, and so we were able to marvel for days at the wrecks in Carlisle Bay, covered in coral and bursting with schools of fish. The most exotic inhabitants of the wrecks presented themselves in all colors and grotesque shapes from the Mikado stick to the crumpled ball. Turtles, flounders, surgeon fish, moray eels, lion fish and dozens of fish species, which we had not even seen in a National Geography documentary, invited us peacefully into their realm. There were more different types of fish on one wreck than we had seen in the entire four months in the Mediterranean combined. And while snorkeling is like looking through a pane of glass into an aquarium, diving is like being in the middle of it, unmolested and unobserved by its inhabitants. A unique experience that can hardly be compared with anything else.

Two stops were still ahead of us on the way to our big crossing. Two islands that should not be missing in any Cape Verde round trip for very different reasons. Our first adventure in this story took us to the south side of São Vicente to the bay of São Pedro. Again, we looked in vain for the green blooming landscapes from the tourist photos about the cape, but a short shore excursion still offered a good alternative: from the bay’s fishing village of the same name, we hiked for an hour along the beach and a narrow path driven into the steep mountain side to the whitewashed lighthouse at the southwestern tip of the island. The friendly and rather lonely lighthouse keeper immediately let us enter and inspect his workplace from inside and outside. Interesting to see one of the large rotating lamps, which we had used so often during the night on our trip, up close and personal, including a panoramic view of the bay.

Back on the Amadie, we watched some small local wooden boats take a few loads of tourists out a few hundred meters into the bay and then release them there for snorkeling and diving. Obviously there were exciting things to see here and conveniently we had our own floating vehicle with us. Equipped with diving goggles, we swam quickly to the site in question and met an unexpected welcoming committee. A handful of one-meter-long giant turtles floated gravitationally through the water. The majestic animals were accustomed to being fed by humans and came gliding up to arm’s length with calm flippers. Each time they gave us an intelligent, questioning look and, when we could offer no food, turned reproachfully away and dissolved into haze in the blue mist. Simply magical.

But the main reason we had called at the equally barren São Vicente was not a swimming trip with its armored inhabitants, but the obligatory visit to the only real marina in Cape Verde, the port of Mindelo. Conveniently, it‘s located right in front of the supposedly most beautiful city of Cape Verde. And indeed, the coastal town with its brightly painted stone houses, lively musical nightlife, chaotic market halls and petty traders entertained us for six days. Six days in which we put the finishing touches on the Amadie before the Atlantic crossing: two spotlights were fixed to the mast so we could work safely on deck at night, several leaks were sealed with silicone, lights were replaced, securing chains for the dinghy and engine were procured, water and diesel tanks were filled, fresh fruit and vegetables were stocked, an oil change was performed on the engine, and the rig was checked for soundness by a local expert. Except for the shopping, which, due to the lack of a well-stocked hardware store or car dealership, turned into a tedious, hour-long rummaging through new and yet always the same general and metal goods stores, we completed all the work efficiently and smoothly – at least after we had subjected all of Mindelo’s bars to an extensive tasting with Sharanya on the first night and had spent the following day with an extensive hangover.

As a little bonus, we were able to watch the departure of the 72 ships of the ARC+ that day. In this organized Atlantic crossing, over a hundred ships gather every year to make the crossing from Europe to the Caribbean together. In addition to detailed information on all travel formalities and organized events in all ports, the event offers a certain safety aspect, as the ARC provides one with all kinds of emergency numbers, weather data and medical support. You can start from the Canary Islands (ARC) or Cape Verde (ARC+). An interesting event, but with a participation fee of around 10,000€ for us not a debatable option.

Thanks to Daniel’s local knowledge, it was easy to arrange a driver for the next day and plan our second hike. On the benched back of a pick-up truck, we drove two hours over winding mountain roads to a volcanic crater, hiked from there down to the coast, and drove back to Cruzinha. Traces from the times of the Portuguese explorers could be found everywhere. Mountain paths, abandoned terraced plantations in the rocky slopes, dilapidated stone huts – even the fields in the volcanic crater were separated in the middle by a sharp line. This is where the first two Portuguese occupiers had drawn their border dividing the island. The ridges around the crater were covered with dark green, mossy coniferous forests, a clear indication that clouds of fog probably hung here most of the time. But on this bright blue day, nothing blocked our view of the lush green Paúl Gorge, through which our path led to the coast. Sugar cane plantations and heavily hung papaya trees lined up with banana trees and mighty baobab trees. Finally we had found our tropical landscapes on Cape Verde and were quickly more than reconciled thanks to the vegetative wealth of this last island.

A sigh of relief went through the ranks of the five-member crew when, after six days and 800 nautical miles (40% of the distance that awaited us across the Atlantic), the shimmering blue outline of Sal, the northernmost Cape Verdian island, appeared on the horizon. The flat, elongated desert island finally promised an end to the three-meter-high waves that had tossed us back and forth on and below deck for days, limiting our range of activities to books, computer games, and Netflix series. But before we could dock in the tourist town of Santa Maria, with its white sandy beaches, windsurfers and Robinson Club resorts, we first had to clear in on the west side of Sal in the small administrative town of Palmeira.

While we waited in the bay of Palmeira for the arrival of a doctor to take our coronatest, some business-minded locals immediately provided us with information, the national flag, gas, garbage disposal and probably also a mermaid, if we had asked for it. The coronar test the next morning turned out to be a quite surmountable barrier, consisting only of a temperature measurement on the wrist. After a dinghy ride through the cold harbor basin, readings around 34°C gave the safe prognosis that we were probably all dead, but at least without a corona infection. The other passport formalities were also quickly dealt with and we got into first contact with the Cape Verdian culture and architecture during a short walk. The small fishing village with its simple stone houses, Portuguese architecture and small street stalls appealed to us much more than Santa Maria, which is overrun by club tourists. While the Amadie made its way back to the southern tip of the island, Jan, suffering from exercise deprivation, jogged the 24 km back across the island to Santa Maria. In contrast to its paradisiacal beaches, the interior of Sal is reminiscent of a parched Martian landscape, its red rocky expanses interrupted only occasionally by warped, gnarled tree stumps and fields of salt pans. Beach tourism really seems to be the only thing keeping this island alive.

Unfortunately, the crew had knocked themselves out trying to celebrate Philipp’s 30th birthday, so the next morning only allowed for a short shopping trip through Santa Maria before we set course for Boa Vista. We spent three days and nights in the quiet bays of Sal Rei and the southern tip of the island. Enough time for some snorkeling trips, which among other things led to our first shark sighting (don’t worry, just a very small one), as well as two extended hikes on Boa Vista itself. At least in some places green spots could be found here, whereas the numerous stumps of dead palm trees and stone ruins of abandoned villages gave evidence for the increasing desiccation of this island as well. Nevertheless, we enjoyed the varied landscape of sand dunes, deserted sandy beaches with rusty shipwrecks, small oases full of giant spiders that caught grasshoppers and even birds in their nets, wild herds of donkeys and horses, red rocky deserts and simple stone huts. The sunsets on the white beaches, shining intensely in all shades of red, were unparalleled.

There was no thought of continuing on the same night. We enjoyed the well-deserved tuna and anchored off Meio. Without further adventures, we entered the greenish murky bay off Praia the next morning. The largest city and capital of Cape Verde did not impress much from the outside at first sight. Except for a presentable government district and two or three nice beach bars, most of the neighborhoods looked very poor. Several warnings of nighttime muggings, also made us skip the city’s vaunted musical and dance nightlife. We had other plans, because a few miles away, the UNESCO World Heritage Site and first colonial settlement in Cape Verde, Cidade Velha (“Old Town”) was waiting for us. We quickly took our next guest, Sharanya, a friend of Jan’s from his time in Mali, on board and sailed to the small coastal town.

Cidade Velha is located at the end of a canyon, its nearly one hundred houses spread over the flanks of the two enclosing mountainsides. Although the riverbed is dried up most of the time, this canyon was the greenest place we had seen so far in Cape Verde. Palm trees, banana trees, sugar cane plantations, and all manner of shrubbery line the beach, canyon, and town, providing an obvious explanation as to why the Portuguese colonists had settled here. The ruins, some very well preserved, of a church, a convent, a cathedral, and a fort that towers high above the village bear witness to its importance during the 16th and 17th century. As a transshipment point for the triangular trade, Cidade Velha held an important strategic and economic position. In some cases, future slaves spent several months on Santiago for manual and linguistic training.

The barren, desert landscape of this sandy planet with its azure waters and white beaches invited us to linger, so we spent the next four days exploring the impressive volcanic landscape of La Graciosa on foot, by bike and with flippers. For the first time, we felt like we had really left Europe and were on a true WORLD-circumnavigation. The following crossing to Arrecife on Lanzarote was after the previous experiences hardly more than a six hour cat jump. While boat carpenter Tilman continued to work on fixing our rudder, which was still giving us headaches because of its stubbornness to move where ist shouldn‘t, the rest of the crew received Silas in Arrecife. We were all happy that this longtime scout friend and roommate of Tilman’s from Saarbrücken, will enrich our crew with advice, action and silly sayings for the next three months. You can marvel at the crossing to and arrival on the canareis in this first video:

After Jan’s inevitable return, however, he and Philipp did not even think about keeping the exhausted diving trainees company during their well-deserved day of rest. Teide had been towering over Amadie for too long. Unfortunately, one needs a permit for its ascent during the day, which can be obtained at short notice only through organized tour operators. Starting from 7 o’clock the entrances are supervised by rangers. Normally no problem, since there is a hut just below the top, to which one can comfortably ascend on the previous day, in order to be on the summit just in time for sunrise. But of course it was closed because of Corona. So we took the bus to half height in the afternoon and started our evening/night climb. The first section of the route led through sparse coniferous forests interspersed with gigantic menhirs and sharp ravines. The view above the clouds on the sinking sun was simply breathtakingly beautiful. At the foot of the volcanic peak, Jan and Philipp tried rather unsuccessfully to get a few more hours of sleep. With temperatures well below freezing, they didn’t want to spend too much time waiting for the sun at 3,700m. The midnight assault on the last 800m led through a bizarre crater landscape, whose gigantic boulders protruded into the darkness like the shadows of solidified giants. Barely 400m below the summit, however, we were caught up by cold, fatigue and the warning that a heavy penalty by the rangers might await us on the descent, and we decided to break off. Well, better to try and fail than not to get out of bed at all. This gives at least material for half a blog entry 😉

Heavily laden with guests and supplies, the Amadie trudged out of the port of Málaga and onto the final stretch of our Mediterranean leg. The usually reliable Spanish wind had died down and we drifted leisurely for a whole day towards Nueva Andalucia and Marbella. The region is known for its year-round mild climate, beautiful beaches, swanky villas and the highest density of golf courses in Europe. What brought us to this place?

You may have noticed that we have been trying to get our hands on a seawater desalination system for some time now, a product that can take several weeks to deliver even at regular times. So imagine, in the middle of the Corona crisis, you have to have a 5,000€, 30kg package set, of which the delivery date is unknown, delivered on time to a place in a foreign country that you yourself don’t know, because your house unfortunately has the stupid habit of shifting its location by 30km every day. In short, it was a two-month administrative nightmare, but after a few dozen emails and phone calls in three different languages across four different countries and a misunderstood delivery of the water maker to Barcelona, we finally had a suitable set of dealer, delivery address and date.

So, Nueva Andalucia. We were overjoyed to meet Kai and Eliana, acquaintances of Jan, who handed over the long-awaited machine and recommended a few places of interest in Marbella. The next day we strolled along the kilometre-long, beautiful beach promenade between the two towns. The excursion culminated in the whitewashed, flower-filled old town of Marbella. The immaculate squares there are just as tempting to drink a coffee as to visit a traditional Spanish tapas restaurant. We and our culinariely interested guests didn’t need to be invited twice, and so dinner on board unfortunately had to be cancelled once again due to acute overeating.

After some more food shopping (the supermarket shelves in Málaga had been plundered at some point to our complete dissatisfaction) and refuelling, we ended our visit to this region with a fiercly contested football match on the beach, which the crew of the Amadie lost by a hair’s breadth and completely undeservedly with 10:5 against their guests from the forest residence. Well, we all know who the winners of hearts were.

The final stretch carried us past the Rock of Gibraltar, the mighty British enclave that keeps vigilant watch over the entrance to the Mediterranean, armed with cannons and monkeys. Just beyond lies the port of Tarifa, where we sought shelter from the wind and waves in the late evening hours of our arrival. Unfortunately, the harbour does not provide moorings for sailing tourists, but two policemen were kind enough to let us moor at the ferry dock for the night, provided we would leave it before their boss arrived the next morning. Their first question after we had moored was immediately whether we had suffered any damage from orca attacks. We answered in the negative, only to be told that killer whales have been attacking sailboats of our size in the region every week for the last year or so. 50 boats this year alone, half of which were so badly damaged that they had to be towed away. This novel behaviour of the otherwise shy animals still puzzles marine biologists. Not too rosy prospects for us, at any rate.

On the advice of the policemen, we attached a signal flare to a boat hook to scare off the orcas under water if necessary. Guards were posted, the cargo secured and before dawn we set off for the four-hour crossing to Tangier on the African continent. Fortunately, apart from some evasive manoeuvres around large cargo ships, the crossing of the Strait of Gibraltar was uneventful and the anticipation of finally entering a new continent was palpable. The shock came only when we were about to enter the harbour in Tangier. Due to current Corona restrictions, it was possible to enter by plane, ferry, car, on foot, by camel and on a tricycle, but the ports remained closed to private sailing yachts. Nothing could be done, all praying and begging did not help, the border police remained firm. (Unless, of course, we had had orca damage, then they would have let us in). Bitterly disappointed, we turned our backs on the port city, which suddenly seemed three times as attractive, and returned to Tarifa.

The despair was great, the rum consumption corresponding, and so we consoled ourselves with a fun evening in a pizza restaurant in Tarifa. We spent the following days doing minor boat work and snorkelling in Tarifa, swinging between the Mediterranean and Atlantic sides of this headland depending on the wind direction. Our guests left us and Jan also travelled back to Germany for a three-week home leave to say a proper farewell to friends and family before heading out to the other side of the planet. Philipp finally finished his bachelor thesis on the energy system of the Amadie and so on 5th of October, after exactly four months in the Mediterranean, everything was ready for our big departure into the Atlantic.

While we are now struggling with wind and waves on this wild, unknown ocean, we are just a little envious at the thought that you are currently relaxing in the comfort of your still flats enjoying our latest video:

If you are not familiar with Motril – there is no shame in that – the small coastal town has little to offer except that it is the sea access to the famous city of Granada and its famous world heritage site, the Alhambra. So early the next morning we took the bus inland and a little later strolled through the old town, which is well worth seeing. Beautifully situated in a large valley between wooded hills, historical religious sites are lined up here with ornate administrative buildings and sprawling, white-painted residential houses. The city’s landmark rises majestically on a hill on the outskirts of the city: the fortress and palace complex of the Alhambra. We wandered for several hours through the paradisiacal gardens of the Generalife, marvelled at the exhibits in the museums of the royal palace and were dazzled by the beauty of the filigree wall decorations that adorn the entire Nasrid palaces. We did not dare to estimate how many thousands of hours of work and craftsmanship must have gone into the detailed construction of every square centimetre of floor mosaics and wall reliefs in these magnificent chambers. The evening view from the fortress walls over the city and valley was a breathtaking conclusion to this excursion into the magnificent Moorish past of southern Spain.

We were approaching the Strait of Gibraltar and thus the Atlantic. Soon our crossings would become more frequent and longer and we could no longer rely on having all the food freshly available at all times. Consequently, it was time to use our last stay in a major European city to think about our supplies for the trip to the Caribbean and beyond. Non-perishable foods such as fruit and vegetables would of course still have to be bought fresh locally at every opportunity, but availability and price were two good arguments for stocking up on at least all durable goods already in Spain. So after everyone had digested the beer of the previous evening, we began to raid the shelves of the nearest supermarket. It took 20 hiking rucksacks and 5 trolleys loaded to the brim to transport one food load after another on board throughout the day and stow it in every imaginable and even most unimaginable compartments. At the end of the day, we were almost 1,500€ poorer, the Amadie half a tonne heavier and our nerves calmed that we would not have to do without brown bread and red cabbage in the foreseeable future.

The thunderstorm was at first just a low hum in the distance, barely perceptible above the whistling of the wind that had carried us southwards from Barcelona for almost 150 miles in the last 30 hours. The sombre sunset made it difficult to see the dense cloud formations. We had just dropped our anchor off the ugly industrial harbour of Castéllon de la Plana to take our guest Rafael to the train there the next morning when the spectacle began. Electrical discharges twitched through the cloud cover on three sides around us every other second. The spectacular weather glow, accompanied by the dull rumble of thunder, bathed the deck of the Amadie in ghostly flickering white light. Occasionally, lightning shot down to the surface of the water, at first at a reassuring distance, but we felt the electric charge of the water all the way aboard our ship. Several times that evening our electrical navigation failed and had to be restarted. While some crew members celebrated the flickering sky as a thunder god’s disco, others crawled into their bunks, careful to keep a minimum distance of 1.50m from all metallic objects so as not to risk a charge jump in case of a lightning strike.

Fortunately, it remained an audio-visual experience and we were able to continue our journey under motor early the next morning. Only to run straight into a driftwood field of thorns, branches and vines that quickly entangled our propellor. Half an hour of diving with knife and work gloves freed the hull from the undergrowth again, but we could only continue our journey in the driftwood slowly and with a lookout at the bow. This was not how we had imagined our 100th (!) day at sea. The ceremonial Glennfiddich was nevertheless unpacked.

After so much opportunity for bathing and showering, and with full guest cabins, our fresh water supplies soon did not fare well and we set course for the next port: Alicante. (If you’re counting, you may have noticed that we’ve now spent more nights in ports in Spain than on our entire journey so far combined, thanks to strong winds and reasonable prices). The city is rather poor in tourist attractions, but offers a great abundance of bars, restaurants, clubs and every conceivable combination of these three evening establishments. A good opportunity for a proper farewell dinner with our guests, all of whom are already planning their second or even third visit on board. The following day we had to take our usual weekly care day: cleaning, shopping, laundry, minor repairs. All the more fortunate that we had a few hours left to visit the Volvo Ocean Race Museum in Alicante harbour. This most challenging and demanding team world circumnavigation race has had its start in Alicante several times. Reason enough for the city not only to draw attention to the inhuman strain and technological finesse of this historical race with video clips, exhibits and information boards, but also to display a decommissioned Ocean Racer. Admittedly, this thoroughly optimised metal box may have had a knot or two ahead of the Amadie in its prime, but this nautical equivalent of a space capsule couldn’t even begin to match its tantalising charm.

Calmly and purposefully, the Amadie drew her lines through the water like a bird migrating ever southwards, the sea an eternal blue desert around us, full of loneliness and life, stillness and movement at the same time. For two days we had been sailing from Sardinia, at first laboriously against the wind, finally with a relaxing breeze from behind. Suddenly there was a whirring, a jolt through ship and crew. The clicker on our fishing rod had finally struck! Was the luck of our last fishing attempts still with us (a seagull, a jellyfish, a plastic bag) or was today finally the day we were destined for greater things? Cursing, Philipp jumped on the rod and began to crank methodically. The struggle lasted 15 minutes, then, finally, a shimmering bluish shadow appeared just below the surface of the water. With combined forces, boat hook and knife, we hoisted our wriggling prey on board and quickly put an end to it. In front of us, covered in blood, lay an 80cm long tuna, weighing a good 10kg, the wet dream of every sushi chef. Without hesitation, we went to work with our usual learning-by-doing mentality and cut out everything that didn’t look edible. The rest landed in the pan just minutes later. Sautéed with a little salt and lime, two hours after taking a bite, a dozen browned tuna fillets lay on our plates – and even our fish-sceptic Tilman had to admit: This was the most delicious fish any of us had ever eaten. The best thing about it: We had enough left over to feed the whole crew for two more days. Our fishing fever is awakened!

Two more days later, we caught sight of the coast of Spain, our sixth travel country, on the horizon. Unfortunately, our lucky (or very unlucky, depending on the angle of the participant involved) encounter with the tuna was not the only event during the crossing. During a routine inspection of the mechanics, we had noticed that the bearing of our rudder had developed play and thus produced some material abrasion in its suspension. Not an acute drama, but definitely a problem that needed to be addressed as soon as possible. So, with these worry lines on our foreheads, we entered the Port Olimpic, a remnant of the 1992 Olympic Games, after a very wavy and restless night off Barcelona’s city beach. The first surprise was the cheap accommodation prices compared to our previous travels (60€/night in the middle of Barcelona’s 5km city beach), which stayed the same way throughout Spain.

So while we took our first walks through this (rightly) world-famous Spanish-Catalan metropolis and some short day trips on land and water with our guests for the week (Vidu, Martina, Bernhard, Olli and Jenny), a local mechanic took a first look at our rudder installation. It quickly became clear: this damage could not be repaired in the water, the Amadie had to go into the dry dock. All praying and begging did not help, the crane reached under the old lady and mercilessly hoisted her out of her natural element. The crew and guests moved into an AirBnB in the city centre and the mechanic went to work. Unfortunately, the damage turned out to be more complicated than planned, so that a large part of the spare parts had to be manufactured anew and individually. The delivery time of the parts and the poor availability of the crane for the removal and installation of the rudder kept delaying the repair by a few days, until we finally ended up with nine days in dry dock and total costs beyond 5,000€. Of course, we used the time to do some small repairs to the antifouling on the hull of the Amadie ourselves. Fortunately, our insurance covered a large part of the costs in the end, but we will do everything we can to avoid such repair escapades in the future. But the Amadie is a 13-year-old ship, the stresses of sailing around the world are immense and the seven seas are still full of surprises.

A special highlight was our excursion to the mountain monastery of Montserrat. Spectacularly situated on the flank of a towering rock massif, this monastery complex is a far-reaching magnet for tourists and hikers. Jan, Hendrik and Tilman also took the opportunity for a two-day hike through the wooded hills in the foothills of the rugged monastery mountains. Forests and floodplains and lonely campsites in wild nature were balm for our water-soaked scout souls.

Finally, on 08.09, the Amadie sank back into the blue waters, cleaned up and with a sigh of relief. We spent the morning loading our beloved lady with supplies and the next batch of guests consisting of our now regular guests Matze, Saskia and Rafael as well as our new arrival Katha. With a shout of joy and a broad grin on our faces, we hoisted full sail and plunged into the waves. With Poseidon’s favour behind us, the Amadie shot south towards her next Spanish adventure. Finally, freedom again!

On 05.08. the third disadvantage of Calabria’s cape-bay-structure made itself felt: Since there is generally little sailing traffic in this region, most of the harbours hardly have any berths ready for guests. The first two harbours we approached that evening were completely overcrowded and only in the third harbour, Agropoli, did we find a sheltered anchorage in the harbour entrance from the nightly waves. We could have done worse; The old town of this small coastal town had everything needed for a romantic evening stroll: wide stone steps, narrow streets and a medieval fort (and of course ice cream and pizza no. 3). Tilman and Philipp used the following day to strategically saw apart the floorboards under our saloon table to give us access to additional storage space in the footwell – a forward-looking expansion of our pantries for the approaching Atlantic crossing. While Réné was already saying goodbye, Jan, Hendrik, Maike and Leonie used the day for an extended hike to the picturesque coastal town of San Marco (ice cream and pizza no. 4).

After an emotional farewell the next morning to our last guests, the Amadie moved further out along the Italian coast, several historical excavation sites in sight. The first stopover took us to Paestum. On about one square kilometre, the foundations of an ancient Greek settlement were uncovered here. The absolute highlight are the three well-preserved temples, which with their broad columns and triangular gables are reminiscent of the Acropolis in Athens. The neighbouring museum offered a number of colourfully painted grave slabs, which provide an insight into the 3,000-year-old death cult of the settlers. The sultriness and exertion of such a lengthy excursion forced the crew to develop a new technique that afternoon: It turned out that with a life jacket and safety line attached to the anchored Amadie, one can float quite excellently on one’s back in the water and enjoy a cold beer without any effort at all.

Rarely had we seen an uglier city on our trip. The whole coastal strip in front of Pompeii stank like a horrible cesspit, the shore strips were littered with construction waste, rubbish and industrial plants. Neither of these things prevented the locals from enjoying their swim, but we just tried to cover the three kilometres from the shore to the world-famous excavation site as quickly as possible, past busy roads and run-down rows of houses. The excavation site, however, offered everything we had hoped for: ancient Roman villas whose well-preserved frescoes, walls and even furnishings gave the impression that the inhabitants had left them one and not two thousand years ago, entire bar quarters whose counters and kitchens were ready for immediate re-use, temples and theatres, streets and avenues, and finally a marketplace, over which Vesuvius towers majestically and menacingly, that apocalyptic conservator of Pompeii and its 10,000 inhabitants. Using a special casting technique, the imprints of some of the corpses found in the metre-high layers of ash during the uncovering of the city were also reconstructed. The black bodies in cowering postures, arms folded protectively over their heads, illustrate in a cruel, depressing way the fateful last moments of our 2,000-year-old fellow human beings.

Glad to finally be able to leave the cesspit in front of Pompeii, we briefly plundered an old sail wreck and set course for Naples. Before our stay in this pulsating metropolis, however, we made the obligatory weekly stopover in a small marina to replace the damaged dinghy propeller, scrub the inside and outside of the ship and do some minor repair work. In Naples itself, we found a good anchorage next to the Castel dell’Ovo peninsula. One of the advantages of travelling with your own sailing ship is the opportunity to anchor regularly for free in spots with a picturesque view of a city for which any hotel would charge a three-figure premium. We spent the next day and a half extensively touring the forts, museums, palazzi, catacombs and churches of this aging but very lively metropolis. Aimless walks through the old town gave an impression of the dynamism and vitality of day and night life. In a side street, we unexpectedly enjoyed what was probably the best pizza of our lives (and it wasn’t even a Pizza Napoli). This discovery was immediately used for ice cream and pizza no. 5 and 6.

Positively surprised and with full pantries, we set off for Sardinia on the evening of 16 August. Twenty hours later we reached Ponza, a last insular outpost fifty miles from the Italian mainland. We were all the more surprised to see that the crescent-shaped island, not even six kilometres long, was populated by hundreds of pleasure boats. More ships were gathered here in one spot than we had seen so far in the whole of Italy combined. To this day, it is still a mystery to us why so many holidaymakers took the trouble of a night trip for this beautiful but unexceptional island. We, on the other hand, continued our journey west after a short swimming break and were soon alone again with the sea and the wind. Our night shift system works smoothly by now, the manoeuvres are rehearsed, detailed commands superfluous. Calm winds are bridged with swimming, unsuccessful fishing attempts and films on our on-board beamer. The only excitement: during a night shift, our dinghy tore two poles of the equipment carrier, to which it was tied, out of their moorings. Three men secured with torches and lifebelts spent a good hour rescuing our solar modules and stabilising the carrier. For the time being, we will only tow the dinghy behind the Amadie.

Braving the weak wind, Amadie fought her way bravely across Capo Vaticano to Tropea (ice cream and pizza no.1), where we renewed the worn-out ropes in our mainmast and prepared the rigging for our gennaker headsail. We continued for two days and nights to Capo Palinuro. A good opportunity for cave diving, snorkeling, bouldering and jogging was offered by the beautiful natural harbor of Baia degli Infreschi with its ice-cold freshwater inlets. At the cape itself, we explored half a dozen caves that could not have been more different and varied. From a penetratingly sulphur-smelling grotto into which we could swim for half an hour in complete darkness, to rock domes with spectacular stalagmites reminiscent of a clutch of eggs from a giant cave spider, to a cave so vast and winding that after more than two hours of hiking and climbing in the light of torches we still hadn’t even seen every tunnel. We recovered from this exciting exploration tour in the mountain village of Pisciotta (ice cream and pizza no. 2). The evening was only overshadowed by a small accident when we rammed a stone with the propeller of our dinghy motor and bent it hopelessly.

Ah, Greece, ancient civilisation, cradle of European bureaucracy…or something like that. At least that’s how we felt when we moored at the customs office in Corfu Town on 28 June and tried to declare our ship in Greece. A marathon awaited us, but in our case it was not a matter of defeating a Persian army, but of overcoming the hurdles of Greek bureaucracy. We spent almost two days in the old town of Corfu (which is otherwise well worth seeing) getting Corona vaccination certificates, passports, boat papers, vignette proofs, bank statements, a pink elephant and whatever else was needed for the declaration. Only to be told at the end that we would have to go through the whole process again the next day, 01.07., because a new month would begin. That was too much for us and after visiting the Venetian fortifications, we preferred to set sail south. The last night of our guests Tobi, Andrea and Michael at the southern tip of Corfu had a special surprise in store for us: a dive in fluorescent plankton that glowed like a cloud of stars with every movement under water, giving every hand gesture a sparking magical aura.

The next stop on our island tour was the hiker’s paradise of Kithira. Matthias and Saskia did a flying exchange here with our next guests, Jonas, Janusz and Rafael. Thus ten people met on board the Amadie on the evening of 9 July to celebrate Jan’s 29th birthday. A very funny evening with sick consequences for the hungover guests on the next, stormy day. Good thing that the bay of Diakofti offered us sufficient shelter. But first we filled our water tanks by hauling 300 litres in canisters from a backyard water tap at the ferry dock to the Amadie, as the actual water supply to the dock had unfortunately broken down and the local sheriff/harbour master/fire chief could not help us any further. Unfortunately there is no plumber to be reached in Greece at the weekend. The next two days were characterised by relaxing swimming breaks, strenuous hikes, delicious restaurant visits and diving along another spectacular wreck, whose underwater world seems both spooky and busting with life at the same time.

We continued on to Milos, a volcanic island with cute villages and white volcanic rock beaches. Here, to our regret, our longest guest Maite left us, with whom we had spent more time on the Amadie than without her.

The next morning, the crew, excluding Philipp, who had to continue working on his bachelor thesis on our energy system, set off on a three-day hike in Montenegro’s hinterland. A half-day bus ride took us through a densely forested mountain landscape, crossed only by narrow roads and deep river canyons. Inaccessible, wild and green, a real European jungle. The first stop on our hike was the Gora National Park, an untouched primeval forest around a small lake in the middle of the mountains. In just a few square kilometres, there are more plant species, amphibians, insects and bird calls here than in most German states combined. The next two days inevitably took us up the surrounding mountain slopes. A strenuous undertaking, but the views of the unspoilt Montenegrin mountain landscape more than made up for it. As a reward, we had a sumptuous dinner of freshly baked cornbread, goat cheese, ham, onions and potatoes on a lonely mountain farm. Our conclusion on Montenegro: A real insider tip in the heart of Europe for all those who love hospitality and mountain hikes.

Back on the Amadie, after the first relaxed “training weeks”, there were some bigger distances on the route plan. First we went a little further to Budva, where we stocked up on food, and finally set sail to Durres in Albania for our first night trip across the open sea. We can’t quite escape Corona yet, so Philipp and Tilman had to disembark there to return to Germany for a few days for their second vaccine shot. The rest of the crew used the time to declare the ship in Albania, do laundry, explore the not very attractive city and refuel. Unadorned skyscrapers and a lot of traffic were the most characteristic elements around the industrial harbour. Refuelling was also a bit difficult, as there are no harbour petrol stations for small yachts in Albania and we were told that there are only petrol trucks with >3,000 litres capacity. During our sightseeing tour, however, the friendly and somewhat crazy harbour staff managed to manoeuvre a pick-up truck with a diesel barrel next to our boat. By sucking on the hose, the supplier finally managed to spray the truck, the harbour, himself, the Amadie, but fortunately also the tank of our boat with enough diesel that we could continue our journey.