A ferry came in and wanted to berth on the old ferry quay – very inconvenient – this meant that we had to say goodbye to our fishermen and find somewhere else to tie up to. Our fishermen headed off to sea in search of tuna and swordfish and we went into the harbour in search of a parking space. Luckily there were some bigger spaces by now and we had our first go at dropping the anchor and reversing to the quay wall. All went well except that the anchor didn't set and started dragging a bit later (threatening to bash us against the quay wall). We rowed out another anchor and that held, so we were safe to go exploring.

The harbour at Ustica.

Ustica (according to Wikipedia) is about 9 km across and is situated north of Sicily in the southern Tyrrhenian Sea. The island has a colourful history. In ancient Greek times it was called Osteodes (ossuary) after the bones of thousands of Cathaginian mutineers left to die of hunger there in the 4^th century BC. The Romans called the island Ustica (which means ‘burnt’) because of the black colour of its volcanic rock, and it is known locally as the ‘black pearl’. Later attempts to colonize the island failed due to various wars, and pirate attacks, until it was finally settled successfully in the mid-1700s by Italians from the Aeolian island of Lipari. During the Fascist years in Italy and until the 1950s, Ustica was used as an island prison when Mussolini banished thousands of political opponents here – including homosexuals who were reported to swagger around in lipstick and silk pyjamas, and hold dances and bloody knife fights. In the 1940s, Yugoslav war prisoners were crammed onto the island, bringing malnutrition and tuberculosis, and in the 1950s, the Yugoslavs were followed by suspected Mafia leaders expelled from Sicily.

Today, about 1300 permanent residents live on the island, suffering waves of visitors arriving by ferry from Palermo. Most of the visitors come here to scuba dive as there are a number of grottoes and relatively deep dives due to the volcanic geology of the island. The town itself scrambles up the steep hill from the harbour, and opens out onto terraces of pastel-tinted houses decorated with murals, as well as bars, restaurants, dive schools and pretty, tree-lined squares.

The town scrambles up the hill from the harbour.

Colourful murals and pretty, tree-lined squares.

Note the mural of the guy standing by the (real) phone box.

Does anyone know the Italian for ‘I have lost my prop…’?

We needed to get fuel before heading on to the Aeolian Islands at the east end of Sicily, so on Tuesday decided to head for Palermo about 40 miles south.

The coast of Sicily, with Palermo just visible on the left.

We had a lovely relaxed sail for the first few hours, until –exactly 2 years and 12 days since the last time we lost one – CAPE decided to shed another prop. Luckily we had a spare for just this eventuality, but it was too rough (drifting at 1.8 knots) for David to fit it under snorkel power while bobbing in the southern Tyrrhenian Sea. We carried on sailing until we were about 3 miles off Palermo, when we were forced to tack backwards and forwards to try to inch towards the port with everything against us (2 knots of a west-bound tide and 6 knots of easterly wind). Finally, after about 6 hours and ending up 4 miles further away from where we started (in the wrong direction), we got fed up of watching the same lights on the hill above the port loom closer and then further away and called up the Italian Guardia Costiera to tow us in. They were polite and helpful, and delivered us to an unused fuel dock at 02:44 on Wednesday morning – at no charge!!!

Lift and hold

Later that day we went to one of the marinas (Salpancore – the one recommended by Rod the God in the Italian Waters Pilot) and enquired about a lift. The staff there were delightful. Yes, that could be organized for 14:00 the same day at a cost that we could afford, but they needed to move a few boats around to make the space to lift us. They towed us from the old fuel dock and we were lifted out at 15:00. We fitted the spare prop (they helped) and scraped the (very few) barnacles off CAPE’s bottom (they washed her down), and she went back in at 17:00. Great!

Look – no prop!

Fitting the spare prop.

CAPE going back into the water.

Then the engine wouldn’t start

Then the engine wouldn't start. We thought that this was due to air in the system, as David had drained the gunk out of the primary diesel filter while we were hanging around waiting for the lift, and there wasn’t really enough fuel left in the tanks to prime it. The fuel berth was (of course) now closed for the day. The marina guys harrumphed at us, but there was nothing that they – or we – could do.

On Thursday morning we bought four jerry cans and did three trips to the fuel berth with a shopping trolley to top up the tanks. David bled the engine for 3 hours. It still wouldn't start (plenty of fuel, but air in the system). The marina organized an engineer to look at the engine (the marina guys were getting pretty desperate to get rid of us by now). The engineer poked around and finally got it started, ran it for a while, stopped it, started it, ran it for a while, stopped it, started it. Brilliant!

Carry on yachting

My sister, Catherine, reckons that our blog reads a bit like the film script for Carry on yachting. So, bear this in mind when you read the next bit… Off we went to the fuel berth to finish filling up (the guy there thinks that I fancy him). We finished filling up, pulled away from the quay, got as far as the centre of the fairway (about 50 metres) and the engine stalled. Would it start? Of course it wouldn't. Bethany took the helm, David and I launched the dinghy (stowed on the foredeck), and David got in the dinghy and started towing us (rowing) back to the disused fuel dock where the Guardia Costiera had originally deposited us. Italians in designer sunglasses and large posh RIBS motored past, but a Dutch guy in a small RIB with outboard saw our plight and came to help. With him pushing and David pulling, we got in. Luckily it was flat calm and no other boats moving, so manoeuvring under row-tow wasn't too hairy. (I have to say that this was all done quickly, quietly and calmly – most unlike us).

Bryn was dispatched on the scooter back to Salpancore to try to retrieve the engineer. He said 'domani', but then turned up later and had another look. He reckoned that it might be one of the fuel pumps (based on past experience, my heart sinks when anyone mentions ‘pump’ and ‘CAPE’ in the same sentence). He whisked David off to show him where the Bosch pump engineers lived and said to collect one at 8 am on Friday morning. The Bosch pump engineer came and poked and fiddled, and replaced the primary diesel filter (an oversized Racor filter of which we have always been suspicious). He got the engine started, ran it for a while, stopped it, started it, ran it for a while, stopped it, started it, ran it at very high revs (scary!) and even took it for a spin around the harbour. Brilliant!

The oversized Racor filter and its streamlined replacement.

As it was too late to set off again, we decided to stay one more night. We relaxed enough to have a wander into the city and marvel at the architecture, meander through the fruit/meat/fish market streets, peep into puppet theatre workshops, eat large quantities of fruit at one of the many fruit/juice bars, source a new kettle, and buy new sandals for the kids (in anticipation of climbing a volcano – even I couldn’t let them climb a volcano in Crocs). That the city is run down is obvious, but it has a faded grandeur and the people are extremely helpful and friendly.

Baroque architecture.

Fresh coconut, pineapple, peach, kiwi and three types of melon.

The comedy of errors continues…

On Saturday morning I was up bright and early and determined to head east for volcanoes. We got as far as the harbour entrance when Bryn reported a nasty squealing noise that could only be heard when down below. By the time we had got to the anchorage just outside the harbour and dropped the anchor to investigate, there was smoke coming out of the alternator – the one that got a salt water shower when the heat exchanger fell apart in Sardinia. Unfortunately, the alternator not only charges the batteries, but also drives the water pump – the infamous water pump retrieved from Lagos while we were in Rota last year. No pump, no engine. We pulled up the anchor and headed back to the disused fuel dock. David disconnected the alternator and we delivered it to an auto-electrician. We have to go back on Monday to find out whether it is salvageable.

It is nice and cosy here on the old Agip pontoon, and we’ve even persuaded the guy who runs the berths next door to let us plug in our electric cable. You know, one could winter here quite happily…

Our view of the city of Palermo from the old Agip pontoon.