Siracusa, Italy

We arrived late into Siraucsa, calling the Harbour Master on channel 16 and laying anchor in front of the old city, twinkling sleepily in the moonlight. Waking up the next day we were surprised by the familiar outline of Windsong, our fellow Cheoy Lee 41 from the boatyard in Nidri with Bert and Julia on board.

After catching up they informed us that they had been in Siracusa almost a month for repairs and recommended to us their contact at the boatyard, Nicola. They claimed he could work magic with metal, useful for us since we had noticed a cracked weld on our steering system in Otranto and had been sailing ever since with low level anxiety about the rest of it failing.

After some introductions Nicola came to look into the bowels of the boat, confirming that we would have to go in the yard for the work. With a week needed for it to be done, that left us with two weeks to spend in Siracusa. The first week moored on the free town quay, the second tied up to the quay in the sheltered (and foul smelling) yard.

As per usual the town quay quickly became a little community. Introductions all round, phone numbers shared and drinks offered, with everyone promising to keep an eye on each other's boat during trips into town.

There was the charming remote-work swiss family on the brand new 40 foot sloop; the pair of french boats constantly shuttling between the anchorage and the quay (to everyone else’s bemusement); the American-flagged 50 ft Beneteau Sense that came barreling into their spot on day 3 piloted by larger-than-life Duane; and Michael, who we quickly bonded with, sharing easy, wandering conversation on his CT-47 ft late into the evening.

He was on a charter from Malta carrying stories of years in a blooming south east Asia just beginning to open up to the west. We talked sailing, and he shared long learned strategies with the calm and self-assured manner of one who has stopped counting miles.

The city was charming despite the more touristy feel than the bustling Catania. As a small peninsula set high up on walls above the sea, one could wander half an hour through the deep streets, soaked in shadow, before suddenly stumbling out into the sunshine and the sound of surf on the breakwater below.

We shopped for fresh food in the market and peered into the many courtyards and alcoves of the city, stopping by the impressive fortress on the point and taking a cycle trip into the newer part of town to visit the modernist Basilica Santuario Madonna delle Lacrime and the only boulder hall in the city, to have a session after three months off!

After the warm company on the town quay the boatyard felt sparse. With a sloppy mud bottom barely deeper than our keel we had to be dragged into our spot by the skilled yard workers as we arrived. During the days, the kind cantieri navali worked diligently on our steering sheaves, despite the constant distractions of other boats coming and going, in the evenings we were locked out on the quay, next to the floating forms of boats abandoned there over the years.

The burning spirals kept the mosquitoes at bay even though the open windows let in the volcanic smell of the rotting silt floating in from the anchorage nearby.

Although we enjoy a good post-apocalyptic view, on Thursday the work on the boat was done and it was time to finally leave Italy. We tidied things to prep for a passage, the 80 odd nautical miles down to Malta.