Stormy days in La Rapita

When the port holds its breath.

We have been moored in the port of La Rapita, right between Barcelona and Valencia, for just over a month. And even though the Mediterranean is sometimes as smooth as glass, this winter has seen one storm after another sweep across the Mediterranean. Even the Spanish say they haven't seen anything like it in a long time. The crossing from Barcelona to La Rapita was relaxed. We sailed in sunny conditions with fair winds, so we even tried out our gennaker.

We were a little unsure on our first attempt and rolled it back up straight away. A little later, however, we were brave enough to try again and it worked very well.

Upon arriving in the Ebro Delta, we spent the first two days anchored in the northern bay. However, it became too windy for us there, so we lifted anchor and headed around to the southern bay. This is where the small town of La Rapita is located.

There is also a larger harbour and shopping facilities. In addition, there are small cafés, many restaurants and high mountains in the background. As the strong winds in the northern bay had caused the UV strip on our genoa to tear, we sailed into the marina after two more days in front of the harbour. This included our first radio message to the harbour master. In addition, strong winds had been forecast again and we didn't want to be at anchor again. We now know that there are about 7–10 days between storms. That's enough time to almost forget how loud 60 knots can be.

When a storm is forecast, we now begin a kind of ritual:

we check all the lines and mooring ropes. Each one is checked, reattached and doubled up. Here and there, we place protective padding underneath. We secure, pad, tie fenders together and distribute them strategically, fix halyards and sheets so that nothing can flap around, and tie the mainsail firmly to the boom. Every part, every loose corner, everything that could rattle gets our attention. We try to get our boat into a state where it offers as little surface area as possible for the wind to attack. And then we wait. The whole harbour holds its breath, everyone is tense, there is no other topic of conversation.

Although I know that we are well secured – I helped and checked everything myself – I still worry: what if a rope breaks? What if our cockpit cover tears?

During the day, I try to distract myself. Cleaning, doing laundry, tidying up, writing lists... The main thing is to keep busy. Everyday life on board doesn't stop just because it's stormy and windy outside. There's always something that can be optimised, repaired, replaced or improved – a boat is never finished.

At night, it's different. You can hear a gust long before it arrives. It starts at the very front of the harbour – a single halyard bangs against the mast. Clunk. Then another. And another. The sound, the noise, moves closer, gets louder, spreads. Then there's a hissing and roaring. A very distinctive sound, difficult to describe – as if the air suddenly became heavy. And then the gust hits us: the ship strains against the lines, works, moves. Everything sounds bigger in the dark. Whistling, clattering, creaking, the lines groan and relax again, constant noise, metal banging against metal somewhere.

Despite earplugs, I wake up about once an hour during the night. I listen briefly and look at the wind indicator in the navigation corner. A quick glance through the skylight, a trip to the cockpit, sometimes over the deck. The nights are long and exhausting.

On Saturday, Denny and I took a windy walk through the harbour. Many boats suffered damage. Biminis were torn, covers and sails shredded, fenders burst, causing the hulls of some boats to scrape against the jetty. We were able to reposition the fenders on a few boats, hopefully preventing further damage. Other monohulls were blown onto their sides by the wind, causing me concern even from the jetty.

At lunchtime today, the nightmare was suddenly over, as if someone had flipped a switch. And every time the storm is over and everything has held up, there is this feeling of relief. And yes – pride too. I had doubts, I was afraid. But we were prepared and it held up.

Although we are only 50 metres from the shore, the wind has covered our boat in salt.

As I write this, Denny is already up on the roof. With a pressure washer in his backpack and cables trailing behind him, he is hosing the salt off the boat. The sun is slowly setting. The light is softening. It seems peaceful – almost as if the last 36 hours had never happened.

But we both know that the next storm is already on its way. It's supposed to start again on Thursday evening.

Here, you learn a special kind of patience. And humility. You learn to prepare things carefully and then let them go. All we can do is moor, secure and check.

But there is also good news: our Genoa sail has now been returned by the sailmaker. We had taken down the headsail on a windless day, packed it up and driven to Barcelona. Now the strip has been replaced and the fabric looks almost like new.

And we had our first guest on board. My mum visited us for two weeks. We cooked together, walked around the village, went hiking and enjoyed the peaceful days. And yes, my mum also experienced a storm here, but it was ‘only’ one night. And yet she too got up three times during the night to check the wind indicator.

She has now arrived home safely. And us?

We're staying here. Quite deliberately. The weather in the Mediterranean is too unsettled at the moment to be able to travel in a relaxed manner.

And somewhere between the slamming of sheets, the howling wind and the setting sun, with every storm a little more confidence grows – in the boat and perhaps also in ourselves.

Ahoi

Anja