On the land...

I'm on a mission. I pull out the grey dinghy from the glory hole of the cockpit locker, fighting my way through bags of sails and spare boat hooks and deck brushes. Inflation ensues and before I know it I'm gently scudding my way across the harbour, land bound. Halfway along, I realise I have no shoes so I make the return trip back to my boat. She looks lovely bobbing there in the blue water, sitting nicely at anchor, my little floating home, my guardian and friend. With shoes, I alight onto a small pontoon and tie off then make my way up a small stone step way, cracking my head on an over hanging girder as I go. Somewhat taken aback, I turn around and use the gantry instead. Walking is weird. There is a steep hill that I climb, at the top lies a row of Artesanal craft shops, a pottery, some surfing shops, a fármaco and a spar. I walk in the hot sun, two empty20L diesel cans, one in each hand, past the shops, up a dusty road. Some houses there, some dogs lazing in the shade in yards and besides walls. I'm starting to feel lost but I keep walking. Each side becomes a wall of patchy bamboo, a lone fig tree lies, a take a peek to see if there's any fresh fruit. One small fig hangs solitary in amongst the dusty leaves. There is some rubbish, something I can't make out. A large dolls head, pink face and matted hair, some more rubbish around, I pass on. An old man stoops over in a scrubby thicket, pulling and plucking at some vegetation there, I cannot see his face, he wears old brown trousers and a dark check shirt, wearing a faded blue dirty flat cap. I leave my cans on the verge and make my way over greeting "Buen dia" as I approach, so not to make him jump. "Hola, no hablo Portuguesa pero yo busco un bomba, diesel" He turns his face up, he is an old man with the lined and tanned skin of many days in the sun, but with a glow that spreads across his face, his eyes alight and fiery. With short stubby finger he gestures the way, we exchange smiles, "obrigado" I offer, about the only word I know, thank you. It's seems I'm on the right track, until I come to a roundabout and my next encounter. Almost a hobble, an unsteady but determined gait, thick rimmed glasses and stern looking, a one piece dark dress, or is it a frock? A small bag in one hand and a stick in the other. I make my offering, she points the way, and awkwardly we are walking the same road and I speak nothing of the language. I'm just a tall gringo, wandering with with my cans, starting to feel tired under the hot sun. She directs me to a cafe, they speak English, barely, but I think we understand each other, the cleaning girl looks over with humour in her eye. The old lady is waiting, peering out from next to a bush in the road. We walk a little further together then she motions to a fire hydrant at the side of the road, and I start to wonder whether Bomba was the right word for Gas Station. Bombero is Spanish for fire truck, which maybe is connected to water, the fire hydrant. I walk ahead musing to myself. Another turn, back into the centre of town and behold, the gas station, and it's open. It seems I've walked in a big circle. I fill up my cans and then begins phase two of my mission to get a taxi back to the port. The young girl in the garage is very helpful, 25 minutes later appears my lift. A young guy, black jeans and a crisp white shirt, a boyish look to him, but probably in his thirties. He is a gentle soul and speaks good English. He tells me that the weather lately is strange, unusually so. Sagres is famous for its windy prominence, jutting out into the North Atlantic, the most South Westerly point of Portugal. But of late there has been little wind. Maybe this explains my being becalmed. We both agree that there are worse places to be stranded as we make our way down to the harbour. Blue seas and cliffs, some small islands standing prominent and isolated in the bay. And the smattering of vessels in the harbour, my floating home being one of them. The ten minutes of air con and conversation is lifts me, he drops me on the quay with my cans and we say goodbye.  

The wind is up this afternoon, the Nortado as it is colloquially known, it usually blows from early afternoon until early evening. It is associated with thermal air movement and can reach 20 knots or more. Consequently I spend my afternoon pottering on the boat in the sunshine, with half an anxious eye on our proximity to the surrounding boats. I'm trying to work out whether the anchor is dragging or not. My GPS fix that I took last night says that we are solid, but hell, those other boats look close. I take a transit between me, a lamppost and a wall, all seems fine. I'm going to call this "anchor anxiety", it's a good exercise in...something. And it's only bad if I hit another boat, or the harbour wall...and I'm hoping that won't happen but it's time to look for the fiftieth time this afternoon before I cook my dinner. PS the minced turnip went overboard, one less thing to think about 😊