Costa coffee, Palmanova. This is one of only a few establishments that are still open. Since the start of November the hotels are abandoned, the shops locked behind metal blinds, the restaurant staff returned to the corners of the globe from which they hail. Though the pines, palm trees and shrubs are ever green and the sand ever golden, autumn can be felt in the chilly sea and any breeze that catches you. Nonetheless, when the clouds aren’t stealing it, the low sun can still thrill your skin with warmth.
We’ve been anchored here for a month and a half now, save for a few nights’ stay in nearby bays that we’ve pootled to for shelter, and I’ve only just got a phone and internet again. Hello. Today I’m over from Gwen for repairs – recharging my recently fixed computer and my recently frazzled brain. This week we had yet another encounter with an angry southeasterly and, despite our fancy new Vulcan anchor, another drag in the weed-root clogged sand. Rich was with me this time (it was four in the morning) and by the time we’d organised a second anchor and laid out its chain on deck, Gwen was static again. The only damage was to our sleep-deprived energy levels.
Rich is getting on well with his job and has seemed happy here, if a little tired from the slog of having to work again. We have had some great weekend adventures, from our fun at the closing weekend of the Katmandu theme park and the cheesy thrills of a bonfire night party in Magaluf to an exhausting ride to a beautiful bay and the rare treat of a cinema and dinner night in Palma. My mum visited this week and it was a treat to explore and dine with her and her boyfriend in the city.
With the bikes now ashore we can get around Palmanova and discover shops and facilities with much more ease. Until recently I’d start my days with a swim (I still have the odd dip, but have to overcome an unpleasant initial shock of cold before my lungs will let me go anywhere) and we often end them with a beer, watching ducks and cormorants, jellyfish and baby fish on the row home. I’ve had excellent feedback from two job interviews, though sadly neither school had an opening for a teacher this late into the season. I’ve scrubbed some of Gwen’s bottom and I’ve got plans for all sorts of decorations.
But something’s wrong. I love my own company, particularly if I can use it for creative pursuits, but after we arrived in Palmanova and Rich started work I started to sense an unusual ache of loneliness stalking me each day. I push through it and get things done, but it takes so long – there’s often as much travelling, swearing at technology and struggling with language as there is actual activity. Occasionally I visit Palma to seek work and sundries, gawping in its galleries and winding streets. It’s 45 minutes to get there after the row ashore, but only during the day as the buses don’t allow an evening out. Most of the time I’m at home – I prepare Rich’s packed lunches and evening meals, I wash up, I get stuff like phone contracts, laundry, job applications, shopping and social security numbers sorted – all the boring stuff. Did I sail 2000 miles to become a housewife? No offence to domestic gods and goddesses, but fuck no.
And then there are the high wind days when I am stuck babysitting Gwen, trying not to worry, hoping the anchor doesn’t drag and preparing myself in case it does. Weeks ago the wind would make this occasionally necessary but now winter is coming and I’ve had three days of it this week, and as many nights. The wind whistles through the recently stripped rigging and jolts the boat against it. I sit, stifled, in a constant motion that kills motivation. Fear blows in and out, and sadness sets in.
I am isolated on a little concrete island without friends or a sense of achievement for anything I do. My Spanish is improving but not enough to make proper conversation. My computer, even repaired, can only be used for a decent length of time when rowed ashore for power in an occasionally risky Bob. Rich comes up with ideas for things I could do to make things better, but they’re often just not possible, and they usually come across as things I should be doing better. I think it’s fair to say I hate living at anchor.
Two weeks ago, for the first time in months, I woke up not on the boat. I didn’t know what the wind was doing, I didn’t have fish in the front garden and I didn’t have the warm body of a sleeping man in my bed. I didn’t have to row anywhere, roll anyway, watch for any dangers or tie a single knot. My body smelled of shampoo and deodorant, not salt water and sweat.
The preceding weekend Rich had made a comment about the messiness of a galley in which I cook, clean and wash up every working day of the week, and I had felt hurt. When he went on to justify it by explaining at length how hard he works and how little I achieve in comparison, I agreed, and fell apart. In guilt and anger I was barely able to talk without crying, which made him defensively reiterate my shortcomings. So for a few days I shut up and got on with a lot of housework and, as soon as the wind was quiet enough to make abandonment a safe option for Gwen, I left for a couple of nights in a cheap and nasty hotel near Palma.
As I accessed precious internet from the sterile lobby bar people sat in lined-up corduroy armchairs in front of me, dozing beneath a telly with a news channel on. I couldn’t understand what was being said but I knew the story – Trump had been voted president of the USA. Nobody in the lobby was crying, so I guessed they already knew.
And yet, in that place with of school-dinner meals and bad evening disco entertainment, there was some hope for me. I was able to talk to friends back home and download new software and movies. I charged my unchargable camera, applied for the few English speaking jobs Palma has vacant and started the repairs that would eventually save my laptop. I dreamed and doodled and wandered and messed about and just did what the hell I liked. In that release from Gwen I got a load of ideas for things I could try. There were ways I could make a difference not only to our lives, but also to engage more with the wider world we seem to have left behind and challenge my own creative urges. I picked myself up again and got back on the boat.
That hope gets kicked down again with each bad weather patch, with each failure that either Rich or I perceive, but it always returns. He isn’t wrong, when he says he works harder than me. He is driven and dedicated, and his focus is almost always on getting the boat and us to where we want to be. It’s his lifelong dream. But in the last week, with my lowness and the many challenges the deteriorating weather has brought, even he has been brought down and felt hopeless. As difficult as my own sadness is to cope with, to see him suffering has shocked me.
So I presented him with an option – an email I had received from one of many marinas that I’d asked to put us on their waiting list in the week before we arrived in Mallorca. This one finally had a spot free. I hadn’t thought he’d be up for it because money is the main thing we’re here for and marinas cost a lot of it. But as we talked it through, bringing up the pros and cons, I saw a glimmer of possibility return to his face.
The place is still available, offering safety for the boat, with facilities that can be accessed without risk to life and precious technology in a dinghy. And it’s in Palma! Gorgeous Palma which might have all sorts of possibilities for inspiration, socialising, working and creating. Palma, where things are still open. We’re going to move over there on Saturday. I can’t guarantee it will solve everything, but it’s got to be worth a try.