Some extracts from the Diario di Bordo

6 September - Kos

G&T Drunk: 3 (uhm...)
Miles travelled: 25

We leave the Turkish coast unaided by a gentle North-Western breeze (NW being the direction in which we need to travel), and crawl back towards the European Union’s fine Eastern islands, namely the Isle of Kos, where we arrive welcomed by handsome youths firing rockets at us. They are apparently planning to solve the Cyprus issue with a new diplomatic push. We squeeze the mighty Templars'F into a charming slot in the flamboyantly-new Kos boat-park centre. Neon lights advertising cheap diners and car-rental venues blink at us intermittently, reminding us of the ancientness of this land. We reluctantly leave the boat and stroll down to the harbour’s centre. After copious indecision between several eating holes proudly presenting themselves as The Best Greek Restaurant in Kos and The Number 1 Greek Restaurant in Kos, but all sporting identical menus, we succumb, exhausted, to the charming features of a 20something year old waiter. We are promptly fed large amounts of roasted meats surrounded by several pale-looking creatures from the Northern provinces of the Union. This place strangely reminds me of Mos Eisley, the inter-stellar space station in Star Wars where Luke Skywalker and Obi Wan Kenobi look for transportation while pursued by Imperial storm troopers (the Turkish army, perhaps?). Strangely, our ship does't feel too dissimilar to the Millennium Falcon, and Filippo could well play a rugged Han Solo. Note to myself: must stop daydreaming...

7 September - Kalymnos

G&T Drunk: 2 (pathetic)
Miles travelled: 28

We awake full of oozing excitement with the knowledge a new crew member is about to join us and bring sexual respite to the only female on board, by offering her body to the hungry hungry hippos. Lisa fashionably stumbles off the late 10:40 ferry from Rhodes wheeling a bullet-proof suitcase and sporting an impressive absence of tan from her recent adventures in Ibiza. She is soon at home on the boat, demanding more room for her luggage and eyeing suspiciously at her bunk-husband, Luigi. We immediately set sail for the exotic sounding Kalimnos, and indeed – upon arrival – the natives rush towards us in clattering boats to see if we are edible. Having failed once more to secure dinner on the high seas (these tunas are clearly more clever than we all suspect), we opt for something more local. Sea-urchin hunt ensues, with me freezing my bollocks off trying to keep up with an ever-forceful Stena deepdiving to collect the spiky creatures. The dark night engulfs us with the site of a partial eclipse, clearly an omen of more wonders to come. Lisa’s sexual duties are put on hold when she demands to sleep on deck under the stars, leaving her dismayed bunk-husband Luigi to the company of his lone hand. Graham and I decide to keep guard on her virginal tits just in case the local fishermen misunderstand her for an inflatable doll left outside. I dream about fish-headed dogs tearing into young female flesh. Maybe those sea-urchins were a bit off...

9 September - Fournoi

G&T Drunk: 2 (appalling)
Miles travelled: 15
Quote of the day: “Was that the boat crashing into something?!?!?” (All, as the boat crashed into something)

We leave Lipsis in the late hours of the morning, as Filippo titillates our visual appetite with tales of wonder about the Isle of Fournoi. In fact, upon arrival after a few hours of sailing, Fournoi is hardly visible, engulfed in the rising waves of the North-Western Beltemi wind, the dawn of a week-long tempest that will set the tone of our last days on the mighty Templars'F. We seek shelter in a south-facing bay, the one with naked men flashing their bits on the beach. We set off - me all giddy in Filippo's wet suit armed with underwater sling-arrow and net; Lisa, Graham and Filippo in the dingy - in search of fish or anything that can be chewed and eaten. Alas, we all return empty-handed (Filippo's picture on the side is a clear fake), despite Lisa’s successful catch of a bait for a larger prey, and this time the Turkish fleet cannot be blamed. Still, last night's octopus catch, mixed with boiled potatoes and parsley by Stena's expert hands, together with a fresh cherry tomatoes pasta calm our hungry appetites.

The moon rises and the wind blows even harder, shaking the boat like an agitated Rebecca De Mornay holding the baby in The Hand That Rocks the Cradle. Our beloved seaman and trusted captain Filippo throws a last glance at the anchor: “All will be well, sleep like babies” – he reassures our concerned ears, clearly unaware of the cinematic images of cradles, babies, nannies and horrible horrors that my brain is flashing beneath my eyes. Needless to say, we are torn from our beds in the early hours of the night by a mighty bang, that of the boat hitting front forward (a mechanical and physical mistery to this date) on the ancient rocks of Fournoi. Panic ensues, with heads popping up from the cabins, feet hastingly running up and down the deck for no real reason apart the need to do something and senses trying to detect the first signs of water spilling into the boat. Stena takes the helm, calmly and cooly looking like a young Natalie Portman during Léon's crucial killings, but (I know) secretly praying her most devoted protector, Saint Charlie of Bogota. Meantime, a wide-eyed Lisa clutches fearfully her passport, shoes and a bottle of water to her chest, ready to jump if things get too damp. The rattling sound of the ropes against the windswept mast, mixed with the litre of adrenalin pumped through our veins at increased heart beat, ensures we all sleep 15 minutes each for the remaining part of the night. Except me. I can sleep through wars.


11 September - from Fournoi to Mikonos

G&T Drunk: 2 (understandable)
Miles travelled: 60
Quote of the day: “Where are we going?” (Graham as the waves reach 5m height)

“We should leave, it’ll be tough, I reckon, but altogether ok”, a horizon-glancing Filippo reassures us with his calmest voice, as we raise at 5 am, having hardly slept all night due to the howling lament of the wind, the Parkinson-like shaking of the boat, the friction of the ropes clutching to dear land, and the 192 bpm whacking of the aluminium wires against the mast. We head West, towards the Isle of Ikaria, as the sea rises and falls around us, and the Beltemi wind scratches angrily into our sails. We smile nervously as tiny sweat drops start appearing on our foreheads, soon to be washed away by the first of many waves hopping on board. No one, however, admits defeat, and Graham even suggests we try skinny dipping. But as we sail along Ikaria, the wind starts peacking at 40 knots, and holding our route is increasingly difficult.

After a moment of mild indecision, with some suggesting turning back to Fournoi and others opting for a detour towards Naxos - personally I always thought of it as a more attractive destination than Mikonos, but couldn't quite conjure up enough historical and literary information to swing the ballot to my favour - we decide to push forward. I heroically take the helm of the trustworthy Templars’F and somewhat hold on for a good couple of hours before giving it back to Filippo. I am loving my upper torso workout by the way. Luigi, meantime, has systematically refused to glance at the outside world, and stubbornly hides inside the boat, incredibly avoiding even a remote attack of sea-sickness. Lisa is secretly plotting to murder whoever suggested to her that sailing was a cool and fashionable activity, when in fact it's knackering and life-threatening. Still, she somehow manages to produce 2 hours of film-camera footage of our near-death experience while clutching tightly to the boat's central ladder.

After another hour of roller-coastering up and down the Med's waves, the shape of Mikonos raises against the horizon, just as our nearly-starved and hallucinating heroes are beginning to seek solace in religion. Typically all I can think of is South Park's Mormon Heaven in Bigger, Longer & Uncut, and I am unsure which Christian God I should pray to (assuming Christianity got it right all along, which I seriously doubt even in these wet circumstances), least I end up in a burning hole run by a gay Satan. A late attempt to reach Mikonos Marina ends in the loss of one of the two dingies and the near-death of several crew members. We turn back and finally manage to reach - after a 12-hour ordeal - a slightly more sheltered Southern bay, where we anchor and collapse dreaming of waves, waves and more waves...