Tunisia 2010

Dearest Family & Friends,

The process of acclimation is well underway; Icelandic volcanoes, Italian boat yard operators, jet lag, food coma, troppo vino rosso della casa, and an aging and neglected boat haven't made it any smoother but the intrepid crew of the Marlow are at last tuning in to that tingle in the belly that propels one to tighten screws, retie knots and rip comrades when the opening presents itself.

The wake up call arrived on schedule, precisely when least expected, this time at 3:15am, just hrs after departure, I was alone on deck, first time at sea in 3 years, in a cold driving rain, a tanker prowling to starboard. It was a dark and stormy night, as Snoopy would say.

Having relieved an exhausted, muttering Middleton at 2am (John had spent 3 weeks aboard Marlow cleaning 3 years of rust and dust with aforementioned Italian boat yard operators who disappear at crucial moments all through the work day such that our delayed 6pm departure ultimately depended on the fulfillment of a request he had made 3 weeks earlier to have the propane tanks filled), I was ill prepared for what followed. The wind had just clocked around to the port beam, so I cranked out the jib and was grateful to turn off the engine at last and roar along with the auto-pilot driving at 8 knots into 3-5 ft seas, hoping to hear complaints from the wanna be sleepers down below.

An hour later my confidence was starting to grow, so I figured I would remind myself what it felt like to steer. I took the helm and drove for all of five minutes before SNAP!, it went limp in my hands and I stood helpless and screaming hoarsely as Marlow fell to the mercy of the wind and waves. Hunt and Middleton raced on deck to find the jib back winded and to see me spinning the helm to no effect with panic in my eye, imaging the horror of waiting for an Italian rescue crew to arrive—would they stop for a cappuccino or come straight away?

Cooler heads prevailed, and we did nothing while Middleton investigated the situation, before reporting that since the auto-pilot is connected directly to the rudder it should work, even if the helm is disabled. Sure enough, reengaging the auto-pilot put us back on course to Elba, and the crew was once again reminded of an important Marlow bi-law—never put to sea without John Middleton on board. No wonder Warren Buffet wanted to keep him chained to his desk at BoatUS…….sorry Warren, we knew him first.

Further analysis revealed that the chain connecting the helm to the rudder had rusted and cracked, perhaps exonerating the helmsman from early accusations of "driving the boat too hard!" (you can imagine who the quote belongs to). So how do you replace a steering chain at 4pm on Friday on a small Italian island? If you're John Middleton, you head straight for a motorcycle shop and buy the last chain on the shelf which just happens to have the perfect size connector links though it is too short and needs to be chopped up and attached to the good parts of the old chain.

And with that we celebrated our good fortune, for breaking a weak link in relatively tame conditions and for fixing it up just the same and for being humbled so painlessly, and so we are off again today, just passing the Isle of Montecristo, down the coast of Sardinia we go, toward our ultimate destination of Sidi Bou Said in Tunis.

Miss and love you,

Sniffy Trufflesniffer

I sit alone on deck just after sunrise, Shamoo snoring away down below, seems he hasn't slept since we arrived, in his seventies and as strong as Popeye. The cold and clouds have given way to a calm, sunny morning, Sardinia highlands a few miles to starboard and a brisk 10 knots aft of the beam propelling Marlow at a cool 6.5 knots.

A lone porpoise frolicked off the bow last night as we ate Spagetti alla Roberto, a dish I learned to make from Captain Roberto on a sailboat here in Sardinia, on my honeymoon, where Eliza and I flew in the afterglow of our wedding night at a villa south of Florence, and where we will return this summer with our girls.

It's been 3 years away from a thing I love…… I had started to feel the need to refocus on my career, or leave it behind. And so I went back to work, all day, every day. Painful at first, now it seems like I'm meant to do it.

Slooh had been ambling along but not living up to its potential. It's a tortuous project—to reliably operate remote observatories in unforgiving geographic and political conditions has tested our resolve. My brother Pat, my long time collaborator Rick Lamb, and a supremely dedicated team of engineers have had to overcome earthquakes, sand storms, lightening strikes, 150 km winds, and secretaries in 3rd world countries who unplug internet connections so they can check their email (try diagnosing that one from 3000 miles away—there isn't a network engineer in the world who could figure out that the pattern of disruption would only correlate with coffee breaks in Chile). At last it looks like we might be turning a corner. I've also co-founded a new company, Solvate, which makes it easy for companies to connect with talent to work remotely on projects. Slooh uses it to connect with skilled workers to do bookkeeping, to design and build web pages, and to sell our product to retailers. Apple used it to connect with an interface designer. I used it this morning to connect with a person fluent in French to reserve dock space in Tunisia. I'm part of a super team in NYC and the progress is exciting.

Back home, thoughts turn to Anna gearing up to play Kate in the Taming of the Shrew. Perfect casting if there ever was. Report is that she's disappointed with the direction—apparently she's expected to kiss Petruchio on the cheek. Too much to ask of an amateur, in her opinion. But she handles the responsibility like a pro. Taped to her bedroom ceiling, god only knows how she got it up there, is a note to herself for the morning—"Study your lines", and even bigger, "Get out of bed!". This from the girl who is up at the crack of every dawn. Ella is her mother, graceful and considerate and intelligent. Jemima sneaks off to eat cookies by the box full. The bottle fed lamb is strong enough to move to the barn with the other animals. My parents are happy together and healthy into their 80's.

For all of this, with the exception of helms that go snap in the night, I turn 40 in peace. Thank you for the indulgence, I won't do it again for another 10 years.

Love,

STS

Savages at sea

While non-christian cannibals might normally have been forbidden on a whaling passage, Queequeg's superior handling of the harpoon made him an indispensable member of Ahab's crew aboard the Pequod. Marlow himself, namesake of this vessel, transformed into a savage during the journey up the Congo River. Even noble English Captain Horatio Hornblower of the Napoleonic Wars spoke of the savage nature that overcame man upon a winter at sea in the North Atlantic, such that upon shore leave to meet his infant son it was all he could muster to keep from throwing up the sash to allow frigid air into the stifling nursery and oppressive presence of his mother-in-law. I recall similar sentiments at the conclusion of my last voyage, across a cold and wet Atlantic in May, suffering the civilized in-laws at dinner, choking on the air in a crowded Parisian restaurant as if in a sauna. It in this tradition that I exclaim that savagery has returned to the Marlow, and attach the photograph capturing the events of yesterday morning to prove it.

Middleton (Bilgesniffer or Bilge for those playing along from The Trufflesniffer Adventures, a copy of which is posted somewhere a google search would reveal) on watch in the morning, sailing under the mainsail with 15 kt winds aft, Hunt (aka Cranky) and I down below. "Fish on" was the roar heard from the cockpit, and as no two words get the crew of the Marlow moving faster, it was concluded post mortem that any emergent situation should heretofore be announced with "Fish on" instead of any particularly specific cry for help. Bilge and Cranky took in the sail while I wrestled with the fish for 20 minutes until it could be brought alongside where Cranky gaffed it aboard, a Little Tunny tuna, weighing in at 20-25 lbs , an impressive specimen, considering they reportedly grow no larger than 26 lbs. The Green Machine had done it again, a lure for the ages, having hooked 150 pounds of fish across three seas.

I gutted it, beheaded it (see photo for clarification) and cut it into steaks and a filet, which we BBQ'd last night for dinner after soaking in milk to remove the fishy oils. While it was delicious, our only regret was that Spaghetti alla Roberto is actually Spaghetti with tomato and tuna, and given that the ethics of the sea require us eat every last mouth full, we are now fated to a good long run of it.

Though smaller and not as delicious, the Tunny is reminiscent of the 60 pound Yellow Fin Tuna caught during our Atlantic crossing, the dried fin of which had been framed and mounted in the salon by Bilge as a gift to the crew upon our arrival last week.

The pole is out of the water, we are on the last leg to Tunis and the ancient ruins of Carthage, 140 nautical miles to go.

Yours truly,

STS

There have been many memorable night sails aboard Marlow. Barreling down a freezing Chesapeake Bay in November with 30 knot winds aft, all attention forward, a rare glance behind revealing the sky had turned red, the Aurora Borealis in full bloom. My first offshore sail at night, with Sham and my Dad under a glowing moon in the Gulf of Maine, simple, uneventful, perfect. The 2nd to last night of the Atlantic crossing, the 6th day of hand steering since our departure from the Azores with a broken auto-pilot, 30 minute shifts driving, Sham and I on watch at 3am in 8 foot seas, everyone else asleep, utter exhaustion, Sham at the helm, I cannot keep my eyes open, and the very worst part of Wagner's Ring on the speakers, not even music but hammering and whining, Sham stuck at the helm, helpless to turn it off, absolutely driving him nuts. Last night's journey to Africa ranks among the all time favs. 200 nm from Porto Santa Maria, half way down the east coast of Sardinia, to the Phoenician port that reigned a slight 2500 years ago. We brought spices expecting to trade.

Drunk skunks woke as close to dawn as could be mustered—if it was a school day, we'd have been late, and suffering Anna's wrath. We set out in a dead calm, probably as much as we could handle, the wind slowly building through the morning to 10-15 knots forward of the starboard beam, flat seas, Marlow gliding along at a frictionless 8 knots. It stayed that way all through the day and night, a totally consistent wind from a fair direction on a sunny day, all the trip had lacked—a nice sail. The nearly full moon rose in the afternoon and lit our way south through the night, hardly a cloud in the sky. On nights like this the cockpit gets crowded—who would go to bed?

Landfall, 6:18am, Africa, not the first time we'd laid eyes on it but the first time we're heading there. All land looks the same from 15 nm out, but you try to tell yourself this is different. And then the offshore breeze delivers the smell. I thought of my labs back home, craning their necks with noses in the air, scientists recording new discoveries. Was everyone in Africa camping? It smelled it, like the coals in the morning still hot to be re-stoked for the fire today.

The anxiety of the passage behind us, the anxiety of the port ahead. Sailing suddenly seems like the easy part. This isn't Carthage, this place is full of Muslims who hate us! When did that happen? Hide that flag and drop me at the airport, I am going home to see the Taming of the Shrew.

The adventure continues……

STS

Sidi Bou Said, named for a 13th century holy man who settled here upon his return from Mecca to create a regional capital of Sufism, is adjacent to the ruinous port of Carthage, the 4th century BC home of 500,000 Phoenician inhabitants and center of a trading empire that spanned from Tyre (in modern day Lebanon) to southern Spain. Today I'd say it feels like the swell suburbs of any major city. This was not our first impression. We mistook an authentically local port for a poor destination and the looks among the landed crew were a bit glum—we sailed all the way across the Med to get here?

Perhaps our senses were impaired by the anxiety of how we'd be received, and so we took preemptive steps to reject our hosts before they could impound our dreams of a safe and exotic landing in Africa. After all, we were packing heat and it doesn't take much empathy to consider how they might view the bunker busting Americans and their affinity for guns. Still, the book says we needed to declare it and so we did. Sham and I paced nervously on deck while Middleton handled the paperwork at the port police station. Would they bring him back in handcuffs and shake the boat down, find a crumb of illicit contraband and toss us into a Turkish style prison ala Midnight Express where we'd rot for a generation?

From the moment we cleared customs, my world view improved. They respected us for playing by their rules, as one would hope. The four heavily uniformed officials who escorted John back to the boat weren't on a witch hunt—they were flattered we'd come all this way to visit to them, and they took our gun in peace. My love for this place grew an inch in that moment. The common, every day neighboring vessels all bore local flags—this wasn't a port for tourists but a place Tunisians keep their boats. We had arrived.

We grabbed a cab up the hill to the town, starving. We spied a piece of lamb rotating on a vertical spit and succumbed to its gravitational pull. Shawarmdidilicious. Exhausted by the midnight run with skeleton crew, we slept 11 hours last night, feeling very much at home aboard Marlow, here in exotica.

–STS

Few women wearing burkhas, a seemingly less than strict adherence to daily prayers, welcoming of strangers, coffee houses on every corner, Tunisia feels like the California of the Arab empire, and our assimilation is assured. We spent the day in the Medina in the medieval part of Tunis shopping our way through the infinite maze of the souk, the bizarre, toward the 8th century Great Mosque at the center. At the fringe you fend off trinket peddlers out for a 5 dinar score ($3 bucks), shopping bag in hand proof you've been suckered already and are ripe for another. The price starts at 5 times what you should pay and 10 times its worth, the scam broken with your exit down the alley, listen behind as the price plummets 80% in response. As you near the holy center, the stakes go up. 6 dinar for a view from a man who implores you to trust him like a Father, 2 more to have his aunt's cousin tie a good luck thread on your hand while you meet the uncle, the finest used carpet salesman in all of Tunisia, here come the nephews to lay them all out, have another coffee, it's on the house, no more talk of dinar, let's deal in dollars, $1200's a bargain for my sister's finest silk thread……….Middleton's good nature betrays him, the insult would be too great—this is family after all, and, we're significantly outnumbered with no clearly marked exits. The treasure we've won? Why, our lives, and this crooked, ugly camel weave, not fit to adorn the bilge, a steal at 180 dinar and worth every penny for Sham's lampooning, "At least we can be sure it was handmade……I bought a carpet like that in Mexico once for $5! "

Saw the ruins of Carthage today, road trip to the beach by way of the desert tomorrow.

–STS

Friends,

We visited the museum and port of Carthage, yesterday and today, I'll spare you the respectively. The photo depicts the description passed down by the historian Polybius who was in Carthage the day in 146 BC the Romans burned it to the ground, the bastards. To commemorate their victory, they built a monument on the inner island that looked like a gazebo in the middle of a pond—very unfortunate, and we can be grateful the Arabs razed it thereafter.

In Punic times, ships entered from the sea through an opening 70 feet wide, which was closed with iron chains. The outer port was for traders and the inner port for military vessels—up to 220 Punic war triremes could be docked in the boat houses on the island and around the circumference of the channel that was dug out two meters deep. Marlow draws just 5' 10" inches and we were tempted to anchor her in the ruin for the night.

As we prepare to depart tomorrow, some final observations—

We have more toilet paper aboard Marlow than in all of Arabia.

The north coast of Tunisia is green and more like the Med than Africa.

The southern coast of Spain looks more like the coast of Africa than the coast of Africa.

The people are very kind; the fat kid who cuts your chawarma with a greasy lipped smile; the captain(s) of the port who treat you as guests in their home; the waiter in the beach town of Hammamet who accidentally over charges you 100 dinar which you know sounds off but are too tipsy and poor tongued to question and who chases you out the door with your money……

If I thought I could believe in a religion, and had to choose among all the religions available today, Islam just wouldn't be a good fit. You can barely get a drink in this town!

There is a cop on every corner—when you first arrive it is welcome but then it starts to feel a little creepy. The sound system wired all over town is a bit creepy too, though I like the tunes. And why did the cab driver bow his head in front of the security detail like a puppy smacked from above when I tried to take a picture of the Presidential Palace?

The tradition of writing from sea came about because many of my fondest are too busy, wise, claustrophobic, young, old, seasick, risk adverse, control freaks, or lady like to be found on a boat for an extended period of time, and if I can't have you here with me, I'll share it any way I know how, Jemima style, full of make believe. The invitation remains open; bring your afflictions, no sailing experience required……Marlow will spend the next two years in the Med and then depart for a far shore, 18,000 miles behind her, around the world we go…………….

Fondly forever,

–Sniffy Trufflesniffer