I mentioned the shipping lanes before and my route from Cascais down to Casablanca took me directly across the Traffic Separation System (TSS) at Cap St Vincent and across the Mediterranean’s ‘front door’ west of Gibraltar. Well, I say ‘front door’ when in fact, it’s more of a ‘goods in’ judging by the amount of commercial traffic funnelling down to approach the narrow Straits that separate Europe from North Africa. I timed my departure such that I would cross the TSS in daylight and although the first few hours looked promising, the wind eventually and predictably backed north for yet more cursed downwind sailing. I’ve crossed shipping lanes many times before and when sailing my friend Nicholas’ Huzar across the North Sea to the Fresian Islands earlier in the year, I’d been surprised by the amount of traffic. Crossing the Straits though, it’s not just the number of ships that is astonishing but the bewildering scale of them; the unimaginably huge container ships and oil tankers as big as apartment blocks travelling at fifteen, twenty, maybe twenty-five knots. It’s a daunting prospect but fortunately, the TSS is designed, like a motorway, to keep the ships moving east separate from those moving west so to cross it, it’s just a simple matter of using the ‘constant bearing’ method to steer a safe course across. As such, I eventually sailed on into relatively unpopulated azure blue waters without incident and soon settled into the same old tedious routine. I had brought loads of books to read but had finished reading the last one; Khaled Hosseini’s A Thousand Splendid Suns within the first couple of days and boredom was becoming a real problem for me in these uninspiring conditions. Somehow though, the days and nights seemed to pass mercifully quickly and with just over one hundred miles to go, the wind eventually lifted and veered a full ninety degrees for a night of exhilarating sailing – proper sailing – at last! It was such a tonic to be at the helm, driving hard, steering her down the waves with two reefs in the main and a full genoa keeping Canasta perfectly balanced as a warm wind built to a steady twenty knots. For nearly nine sleepless hours, I felt alive. The wind continued to build and I wondered briefly if I’d caught up with the storm that had passed south over Cascais just two nights before. Twenty-five knots of wind and I furled some of the genoa away as she began to feel over-pressed. It was an odd feeling though. I was slightly startled by the contrast, the severity and the short time it had taken to materialise. It wasn’t a gale yet and it never would be, far from it, but I’d been making regular ship’s log entries and hadn’t seen any tell-tale drop in the barometer reading so I really hadn’t seen it coming. Nor did I know just how much more it would build but I was enjoying it enormously and Canasta was in her element – literally.

In Cascais, well, in Lisbon actually, I’d bought the Admiralty Sailing Directions for North Africa thinking it would contain all the port and marina pilotage information necessary for my onward journey beyond the territories covered in the Reeds Almanac. So, as the distant lights of the Moroccan coast slowly appeared on the horizon through the mist that hung damp in the air, I consulted the book for information on Casablanca. I can tell you now Casablanca’s population, the number of ships in and out of the port in 2004 and their total weight. I can tell you density of the water, the prevailing climate and I get the impression that somewhere in this book, it’ll even tell me what the Harbour Master likes in his sandwiches every day but what it doesn’t include is anything at all relating to any yacht harbours, marinas or anchorages. For two reasons; one, there are no yacht harbours, marinas or anchorages in Casablanca and two, the 93 Euros I spent on the book was a complete waste of money as the information within it relates only to commercial shipping. As such, I decided to head first for Mohammedia about fifteen nautical miles north of Casablanca knowing that Mario from the Clube Naval de Cascais had sailed there once before. From there, I would make enquiries about Casablanca and head down there as soon as I could be sure of where exactly to find the marina. It was still dark as I navigated around the enormous harbour wall and into the shelter of what appeared to be an enormous industrial shipping port. Through an eerie mist I could see the dark outline of huge structures looming to starboard which might have been industrial cranes or evidence of an ongoing construction project and I wondered if my electronic charts were up to date I ventured in further looking for the yacht harbour and wondering if in fact I ought to just turn around and head straight for Casablanca where I felt certain there must be a good sized marina. Then, beneath the bright lights of tug boats and a bulk fuel tanker I noticed a narrow opening in an inner harbour wall lit accordingly with red and green lights. I motored in slowly and tentatively alongside the fuel tanker and there, beyond the dark profile of several fishing boats to port, I could just make out the vague outline of a cluster of masts just a hundred metres further on. I approached hopefully but in my mind, I had already decided that Mohammedia was a filthy, noisy, stinking pit of an industrial harbour and not somewhere that I really wanted to be spending any time. I got close enough to see that the moorings were ‘stern-on’ too and being single-handed, it would have been virtually impossible to safely moor up without help. It was then that I spun Canasta round and headed back out as the sun very slowly started to rise and penetrate through the mist.

I motored down the coast as the wind dropped entirely and as daylight revealed a coastline of featureless factories and chimneys billowing out thick, acrid smoke, I noticed too that the water was littered with rubbish ordered into endless narrow bands of soupy filth by the currents. A thin film of pearlescent oil glistened across its surface. The morning sun was not yet powerful enough to burn away the mist and the effect, however disgusting and disheartening, was dramatic. All the way to Casablanca, the shoreline promised nothing. I had high expectations of Morocco and so far, I had been disillusioned and cheated by the traditional preconceptions and on top of that, I was about to sail into a huge industrial port amongst those same container ships that I’d seen heading for Gibraltar and I was woefully unprepared. The dice had said ‘Casablanca’ though based on the assumption that it would have a marina and even the electronic charts showed a huge port area and within it, what looked to me like it could have been pontoons. I didn’t waste too much time looking though. No sooner had I entered the port and motored towards the far end, I passed a building that looked derelict to me but was evidently the harbour operations office when two chaps came rushing out onto the rooftop making a gesture like they were stirring large imaginary cauldrons with their index fingers. “No marina here” they were shouting in a bored sort of tone that suggested I wasn’t the first to of made the assumption.

“You must turn around…” ah, the cauldron thingy

“… there is nowhere for you to stop here”

I asked them what VHF radio channel they operate on (incredibly, even that little gem of crucial information was missing from my 93 Euro Pilot Book!) so I could talk to them more easily and was told that a marina was being built but won’t be ready for another three years. I said I wasn’t prepared to wait and confirmed with them that Mohammedia was the nearest port with yacht facilities. They misunderstood my irony (or was it just bitter sarcasm?) but agreed nonetheless. I left.

Arriving back in Mohammedia at about midday, it was interesting to see clearly what I had earlier imagined. Yes, it was an industrial port and yes, it was a stinking pit but in the daylight, I could see a primitive, functional charm about the place. Beyond the ships and the fuel silos, ignoring the debris floating in the water and the smell of oil that hung in the air, I could see a flourishing, vibrant fishing community and a clutch of simple buildings that served as marina facilities. I’d radioed ahead and was greeted by a couple of local guys on the pontoon eager to take a rope from me and an impossibly small man with a disproportionately enormous smile who, with glowing pride in his work, claimed to be Noujoumy Ahmed, the Marina Manager.

And Kiwis…

I am surrounded by Kiwis and I’m told to expect more. What’s odd is that they’re not actually travelling together – it’s coincidental that they have all descended on this tiny North African marina. Cariad was here when I arrived and her crew Watty (a Kiwi) and Paul (an Englishman living in Spain) came to be entertained by my efforts to fathom out this absurd stern-on mooring system that involves reversing over a submerged line weighted down with chain, picking it up with a boathook and hauling it on deck at the bow complete with a thick stinking sludgy coating of mud from the marina bed. Paul is quiet, thoughtful, slim and instantly likeable. Watty… um…. Isn’t. Saliander, a 55’ Tayana arrived shortly after me and is rafted alongside. Her crew, Peter and Raewyn are slowly cruising back home to New Zealand and their boat looks well equipped for a lifetime at sea. Morris and Trish, another Kiwi couple are moored opposite on Cygnus II and they too seem to be prepared for an extended cruise. I suspect that none of these boats though will be following me any further than the Canaries where they will turn west and I will continue down the coast of Africa. On my port side, Jonathan, a beautiful Sparkman & Stephens wooden sloop flying a Dutch flag that is so large that it touches the water and that, with much ceremony, is lowered each night as the sun sets by her impressively moustachioed skipper. Besides a French crew at the other end of the pontoon, we appear to be the only visitors here in this tiny marina and I don’t think anyone except Paul, who has business commitments, is in a hurry to leave.

I went into the local town of Mohammedia on Sunday night with Paul and Watty to get some dinner. It’s only three hundred miles from my last landfall but in cultural, climatic, geographical, architectural, culinary and religious terms, it could be a million miles. Only the language is familiar and that’s because until 1955, Morocco was occupied by the French and the language, as well as Arabic, is spoken fairly universally here. Under French rule, the town was known as Fedala but when Mohammed V was deported to Madagascar, the Moroccan people launched a bloody uprising against the French and having won, they renamed the town Mohammedia in honour of their deported King whose grandson rules today with ultimate control of a puppet parliament based in Rabat. The dice specified Casablanca though and I’ll head down there this afternoon so I won’t dwell too much on Mohammedia for now but my first impressions are of a repressed nation, a Monarchy still, that is only just starting to adopt western ways and yet whose infrastructure is in economic ruin. I would later discover, chatting to my new friend Noujoumy Ahmed that in fact, surprisingly, Morocco is far less repressed now than it was under French occupation. I’m told that positions of management are now offered as readily to women as they are to men and that education is encouraged beyond the baccalaureate which under French rule was forbidden. Women still often choose to wear a head covering although it’s not enforced and although violent crime is high and the punishments harsh, the death penalty has not been exercised for over twenty years. The economy locally, although struggling with the current international difficulties, is generally fairly free of corruption and is pretty stable. It is mainly derived from exporting phosphates and fishing although to a certain degree, tourism contributes significantly although not nearly as much as in Marrakech.

I might be wrong and I’ll certainly try to find out more if I can but despite having the feel of a developing country, despite the filth in the water and the primitive way of life, despite the residual oppression of women or indeed the scarcity of women, the locals are friendly and I know I’m going to find this place fascinating. It reminds me a lot of my time in Indonesia although I suspect that Casablanca might be very different and as much as I like Europe, I can’t help thinking that my adventure has just started.

More soon,

Bee

Rob Clark

W2N Global Ltd.

+44 (0)7967 661157

www.w2n.co.uk