Well, a lot has happened since that first post. I’ve written things here and there, but nothing feels like a cohesive sequence, so instead of continuing to delay and postpone my second post, I’ll just use what I’ve already written and run with it. Some parts may feel rushed, and it ends with a cliffhanger – sorry! 

Wednesday, September 8th, dawn. 

My alarm goes off and I crack my eyes open. My eyeballs feel dry as I try to blink the rawness out of them. 

I groan. 

As I sit up in my parents’ guest bed, kicking the covers down to my waist, I seriously contemplate going back to sleep and forgetting about this whole sailing into the horizon business.

I groan again, and blink again, squinting against the glare of my phone’s screen.

It blinks back at me. “5:30 AM.” 

I sigh and laboriously roll out of bed.

Dragging myself downstairs, my stomach feels tight and queasy. I can barely swallow my coffee – breakfast is entirely out of the question. I don’t know if this is the result of excitement or extreme sleepiness. Probably a little of both.

The drive to Haifa along Route 6 is mostly a blur, but I do remember thinking that in the early morning hours, before the glaring hostility of September’s ungodly heat takes hold, the Israeli countryside can still be quite beautiful. It’s a nice note to part on. 

I get to the marina at 7:30 sharp, and the combination of early morning fatigue, a huge backpack hanging off of one shoulder, and heading off into what will undoubtedly be a gruelling physical experience, all coalesce into an echo of my commutes to base during my military service. 

But this is different. This time, I’m heading into what feels like absolute freedom, not a taxing, prolonged imprisonment. 

I step through the marina’s gate, and there, down the first pier on the right, I see her: 44 feet of fiberglass, wood and perspex, with a towering metal mast and an endless tangle of ropes. The Poodle.

On board, M and S are already waiting.

I’ve met M, who owns and captains the boat, twice before. The first time, we met to chat, coordinate expectations, and get a sense of each other. After all, hitching a ride is one thing, but sharing tight physical quarters for weeks on end with a stranger is quite another. M left a very positive impression; thorough, professional, direct, friendly – but a little bewildered by my motives (“Why not take a plane?” “You do understand that sailing isn’t… easy, right?” “So this trip that you’re going on – why are you going on it?”) 

It took a while for it to click, but his authoritative, friendly, intelligent, knowledgeable bewilderment with me, coupled with a shock of white hair and a deep voice with a raspy undertone all came together into one inescapable association: Back to the Future’s Doc Brown – only, instead of a DeLorian, his baby is a yacht. 

The second time we met was on a test cruise with a few other sailing companions who are scheduled to join him on other legs of his sailing trip. 

Among them, N – a seasoned sailor and travel companion’s of M’s, who, during that short excursion, took it upon himself to show me how to tie the boat to a dock, how to release and throw ropes, and how to unravel the sails. Of course, it was a lot of information, and hardly anything registered – but I did get a sense if what I don’t know and have to learn. 

Saying a rushed goodbye to my parents and the friend who came to see me off, I went below and stowed my bags in my cabin (much like Queequeg and Ishmael, my backpack and I would be bedmates while I stay on board – there simply isn’t enough room anywhere else on the Poodle) and quickly began helping with the rushed, anxious undertaking of pushing off and sailing out of port. This is the first time I see S, M’s wife. We say our hellos, but quickly turn to boat-business. We’ll have plenty of time to chat out on the open sea. 

M&S’s Itinerary (and where I fit in) 

M&S’s entire trip is essentially a series of island hops. 

From Haifa, their first stop is Limassol, Cyprus. After that, two more Cypriot ports of diminishing proportions and increasing westernliness: the town of Paphos (or Pafos), with its ancient ruins, tombs and temples, and then Latsi (or Latchi), a tiny fishing-port-turned-touristy-holiday-resort-destination. 

From there, they plan to sail to a small Greek island called Kastellorizo – the easternmost Greek territory, right off the Turkish coast; allegedly a breathtaking destination with a dramatic topography which has passed under every major power in the Mediterranean, and has the architecture to show for it – then Rhodes, and up into the Aegean sea, where they plan a long, lesiurly sail from one tiny island to another.

My ride with them ends at Rhodes, where I’ll shoulder my pack and continue on foot – or at least, without a private cabin on a pensioner’s yacht. 

Finding My Sea Legs on the Way From Haifa to Limassol

The first leg of the trip, from Haifa to Limassol, is also the second longest; going at an average speed of 5 knots, it’s expected to take around 25 hours. It’s also, M warns me, the most difficult – not because the waters are rough, but because none of us will be acclimated to the sea yet. Nausea and disorientation are expected, and M advises me to take anti-motion sickness pills as a precaution. Once we make it to Limassol, M reassures me, we’ll be acclimated, and the following legs, including the longest one (Latsi to Kastellorizo, 30 hours), will be much easier. 

It’s on this part of the trip, I think to myself, that I’ll find out if I’m made for seafaring. I remember nausea and general unwellness from my first sailing trip to Cyprus, 29 years ago, but I’m hoping I’ll be able to overcome it this time, power through, and step on to Cypriot land hardened and tempered for the watery road ahead. 

On the other hand, if I don’t find my sea legs, my journey as planned might very well come to an abrupt stop, and I’d have to rethink my plans from a Cypriot airport. 

That won’t happen, but I’ll tell you all about it in my next post.