The Voyages of Lyra

The wind came up overnight, howling in the rigging and rocking us in our giant cradle. Fortunately the rain did not start until the morning. When it did it came in. At the corners of the front hatch and along into the saloon. We soon had an assortment of bowls and pans catching the drips. Tea coloured water accumulating in them to be emptied when the rain eased.

It was very dispiriting.

Thankfully the rain stopped and the sun soon dried us out, but the storms are forecast all week. John covered the front hatch with the plastic table cloth weighed down by our hosepipe augmented by a coil of rope.

It might not be elegant, but it works. The leak has put paid to our hopes of sailing though. We cannot risk sea water sweeping over the deck and into the fabric of the boat.

Rain is forecast for the day after tomorrow, so there is a certain urgency about our autumn spring clean. We washed all the bedding yesterday and used the tumble drier to get the duvets dry enough to sleep under, but there are lots of our clothes and towels, not damp but a bit stale after three years confinement. We festooned Lyra with as much as we could, flipping things over to catch the sun. Laundry in Italy is very satisfying.

After lunch we walked into town and chose our fabric for the new mattress. It was unrelentingly hot and standing in the tiny shop was not much cooler. We had planned to do some shopping in town afterwards, but the mimed offer of a lift back was too much to resist. We said please, hoping we had not misunderstood, but our man gathered his keys and led us to the entrance to a subterranean car park. We waited till he came out in his car and it was such a relief to sit down. We sped all the long road back, with the wind bathing us with cool, marvelling at the ease. He gave our dock number at the gate and took us right to our pontoon. We couldn’t thank him enough. It would have been an act of kindness at any time, but in view of Covid even more so.

At the end of August John received an e-mail from the boatyard to the effect that Lyra would be ready at the end of the week, but then the yard would be closed as they would be on holiday for two weeks. As it turned out we were then on holiday ourselves, in Devon, so it we did not set out to return to Italy till 21st September. The week before we were due to arrive the boatyard sent another missive saying we would have to pick the boat up from them and take it round to the marina ourselves. This was daunting news for a woman who had yet to jump from a moving camper van onto a lawn. Especially as it was to be just the two of us this time, no Lara. Once again we arranged to stay at the Hotel Miramare. We arrived to enjoy a spectacular sunset over Ischia from the bar.

The following day we had a morning by the pool and a lovely, if rather bracing, swim. Then we again took a taxi to the boatyard. We headed upstairs and were told that all was well, but the water pump needed to be replaced, they had the part and it would be done in an hour. Maybe an hour and a half. In fairness they could only test the pump once the boat was in the water and they had only put her in that morning, though why they could not have let us know what was happening was a mystery. They assured us we could go onboard and see the boat and wait. We went down to the yard expecting someone to come and show us the way, but nobody did, so we made our own way down to the slipway.

There was Lyra looking much better to be in the water. She had obviously been cleaned, though her canvas cover and the cockpit hood were bundled up on the stern. We climbed aboard. The new black screen covers stood out and down below the beds had been stripped and all looked shipshape. The new lights worked and looked very shiny. Then I noticed that the bedding was damp and the front set blackened with mould. John tested the instruments and they were not working. The engineers arrived to fit the water pump. We left them to it and headed wearily back to the office to report our problems. They would send an electrician. They had had to power wash Lyra three times, so some of the water must have penetrated. The covers had been removed because the plastic had perished and could not be seen through. The sun and weather over time. Acts of God noone could help.

We went back and sat on board whilst parties of workmen sorted out the pump and the wiring.

The covers had been new in 2018, they had been removed with some force as the zips were torn from the canvas in places. There were several holes. John thought the topping lift had been left adrift and whipped through at some point. I took photos of the dismembered zips.

The wind began to get up. I was not looking forward to the sail round to our berth and the landing there in calm weather and grew tense at the prospect by the moment. Finally the engine started, coughed out a mess of weed and grass cuttings and was running well. All the circuits we’re working, the engineers all left, including the one secreted in the engine room and we were good to go. Thankfully John decided we would be better coming back in the morning when we were fresh and the wind wasn’t. We let the office know and they were cheerful as ever. We began the weary walk back into town. Our way took us past the upholstery shop that had made the spray hood and cover in 2018 and it was open, so we called in on a whim. The couple were there, every bit as kind and calm as we remembered. Sadly neither their English, nor our Italian had changed much, but they remembered us and when I showed them the pictures of the spray hood and cover they remembered the work. They arranged to meet us at our berth at twelve the following day. This somehow lifted my spirits. We went back to the hotel and treated ourselves to a posh meal in their terrace restaurant overlooking the sea. As the evening wore on it became a mite chilly, but was balm to the soul nonetheless.

First there was COVID and we could not travel to Italy. At the time Lyra was in the boatyard being polished, so we decided to give up our marina berth and leave her there on the hard. They were happy to accommodate her there and delighted we had paid them for the work. The were having to shut down themselves, due to Covid. Then 2021 had its own sliding scale of restrictions and by the time we could consider travelling it was August and too hot for us. Given the short days and more regular storms of autumn we decided to leave Lyra where she was. We thought this would save us money. Come this year we were ready to start sailing again. In a slight aside, I felt less ready than I would have wanted. Two years of not hauling myself up onto Lyra and jumping down onto the pontoon had left me much less limber. I practiced pulling myself up into Johnsey’s van and jumping back down onto the drive. I improved, but it was not elegant. Lara suggested I needed to practice jumping out of the van onto the grass as Johnsey drove slowly down the drive. I could see the value in this, but decided I would rather save injuring myself till I had to. As a result Lara agreed to accompany us to help, even though she hates the start of season cleaning.

The marina said we could have our old berth at nearly the same rates. Perfect. The boatyard kept ignoring John’s calls and putting us off in their e-mails. April turned into May and finally John booked the three of us to fly out and made reservations for two nights in a hotel in Castellemare. He e-mailed the boatyard accordingly. Silence. Two days before we were due to fly came an e-mail asking if we had authorised the removal of our navigation equipment. We had not. There followed an exchange of e-mails. Various things had been stolen, if we could go on the boat and check what was missing when we were in Italy that would be helpful. Their insurance would pay for everything. John contacted our insurance. The hotel could not put us up longer than we had booked, the season was starting. John trawled the internet and found a hotel on Ischia we could book into for a week.

There was a meeting between all interested parties. John and I took a taxi down to the boatyard. There were three people from the yard, their insurance man, our insurance man with a woman to translate, John and myself. We sat round a board table and everyone was very pleasant. Our insurance seemed pleased that their insurance had offered to pay. We set out to go and look at Lyra. They all stood and had espresso shots by the machine on the way out. I could not have swallowed it, though the smell was great. We all trailed across the hot, virtually empty yards. John spotted Lyra’s mast. She was in a remote corner, dusty with her cover gaping open, huge out of the water, her deck high above our heads. We all stood around while one of the boatyard suits went for a ladder. We waited longer while a very dusty workman brought a massive ladder and resets it alongside. After some discussion he brought it round to the rear. The translator expressed horror and announced she would not be climbing the ladder. Despite my lack of practice I was not going to stay behind to keep company with her. I left my handbag with her and followed John and the men up. There were gaping holes in Lyra’s panelling where the screens had been. The inside was dry and our books were all bagged up, our personal belongings as we had left them. I gathered hats and our walking sandals and put them into my beach basket. I felt empty and John was clearly shocked. He had done all the talking with the various men. We climbed back down. Going over the top was not much fun, but one of the men carried the basket for me. We trailed back across the yard and into the meeting room, where John and I sat with the oldest of the boatyard men and everyone else chattered round the computer in the next office. Eventually they emerged triumphant with a piece of paper. I had a strong recollection of how cheated I felt as a child when the Wizard of Oz solved all the characters problems with certificates and bullshit. It was an agreement, a catalogue of what was missing and the boatyard’s commitment to replace it. There were six copies and we were all to sign all of them. This we did, passing the papers round in a spirit of conviviality. I asked when this would happen (actually I just asked when). This put a bit of a damper on things. It was all very difficult, the war in Ukraine causing a shortage of computer chips etc, etc. Our insurers suggested if we could find a supplier we should forward this information to the boatyard. They both looked us in the eye as the woman said this. The meeting broke up in high spirits. We shook hands with everyone and John put our copy of the agreement in his bag. The two of us walked the long road back into town. Half way back we stopped to change into the walking sandals I had liberated from Lyra. It was a low point.

The high point was our week in Ischia with Lara. The hotel was on the far end of the island, gracious and relaxing. There was a turtle pool outside the lobby a lovely outdoor swimming pool, indoor spa pools and a dedicated stretch of beach. We had a proper holiday, if not the one we had anticipated.

John had done some research online and the beaches were mainly run by concessions, which rented out loungers etc for the day, so we set out with just our towels and various things to read. We went through the streets, over the saddle and down to the largest of the beaches, Serapo. The sand was covered by various arrays of parasols, each one flanked by a pair of loungers with a folding chair propped between. We paid at the desk and followed a young man out into the matrix to our spot, half way to the sea. The ranks of beach furniture started off orderly as soldiers on parade, but gradually frayed along the seams as beds were pulled into or out of the shade and chairs were borrowed from other stations. Groups of young folk and large families crowded round each parasol, with all the paraphernalia of a day at the beach.

After letting laying claim to our own space we ventured down to the sea. The beach sloped very gradually, small waves rolled in taking our breath as cold water claimed fresh inches of flesh. It took a while to wade out to a swimmable depth, in my case on tiptoe, but once in the water was glorious. Looking back to shore the beach was dark with bodies as far as the eye could see, the shallow water thronged with paddlers and ball throwers, but out chest deep there were few fellow swimmers. Below us passed shoals of fish, unconcerned by the human invaders. After a while it became chill, so we retired to base and pulled the loungers into the sun to dry off, then it was back to the shade and our books. We repeated the process several times, at one point buying a couple of cold beers from the kiosk. It became clear that the sand had reached scorching point. Teenagers that had been strolling back and forth to the sea were suddenly skipping past at a bouncy trot and mums were jogging uncomfortably carrying their children. We discussed whether or not to venture down for another swim, the wisdom of taking our shoes or just making a dash for it. In the end we lay back down and watched the antics of the family next to us. They were sprawled about the two parasols immediately on the seaward side of us. There were two women, possibly sisters, a tall man, a couple of teenagers girls and three smaller children all taking turns to wear a straw trilby hat.  At first it was on the head of the little girl over her plaits, she looked very sweet. All was peace, the adults and teens sunbathing, the three children off with buckets and spades. Then the oldest boy arrived back wearing the hat. His mum erupted from her lounger, gave him a death stare and strode down to the sea barefoot, but oblivious of pain. She came back with a small child squirming on either side, plonked them in the middle of the camp and tore a brief strip off the older lad, who was already in a pre-emptive sulk, before marched back to the shore. She returned with a fistful of spades, full buckets and a watering can, which splashed much their contents as she strode. The children were to stay where she could see them. She lay back down. Dad was dispensed back to the sea to refill the buckets and can. He shambled down with the weary gate of a man, who understood this was now going to be the shape of his afternoon. He wore his flip-flops and the hat. All was peace till the moment when the smallest boy, naturally wearing the hat, stepped a little way away from the loungers, pulled down his trunks and let forth an impressive arch of wee, spattering the sand some distance away. He pulled up his trunks and sat back down happily. The grown ups all looked at one another and set the small girl the task of watering over the top with her can. She sprinkled a dainty pattern round that of her brother. People instinctively avoided the area on their rush to the sea. We finally decide to go for it and prudently passed on the other side, hugging the shade from the next row of parasols and then making a dash for it. I found the worst thing was the hot sand landing on top of my toes and was glad to stand with my feet in the cool water. It did not make wading further in any easier, but the swim was very refreshing. By the time we finished our swim the family were in the throws of packing up and setting off home. We drying off in the ensuing quiet and then made our own way back.

That evening we ate out in the square by the funfair, watching a terrifying ride where youths goaded each other to push flying chairs higher and higher until one of them managed to catch a bunch of streamers hung from a buoy some distance away.There is no Italian phrase for risk assessment..