Follow our Track @ NoForeignLand

Wind and waves on the beak, again!

All the research we had conducted before this leg of the journey warned that the northward passage through the Red Sea would be an unpleasant game of two distinct halves.

The first half, from Djibouti to Suakin in Sudan (roughly midway up the Red Sea), was forecast to offer favourable following winds and seas. The second half, from Suakin to Suez, promised to be a hard slog directly into wind and waves.

So far, the passage through the Bab el-Mandeb Strait and past the Hanish Islands had gone largely to plan. We had made better progress than expected, despite the slow start immediately after leaving Djibouti. But just as we began to settle into the comfort of supportive winds and following seas, conditions started to deteriorate.

The change was gradual at first. The wind swung around and we began beating directly into it. Initially it was manageable, but as the headwind steadily built over the next few hours, our speed dropped. We repeatedly adjusted course in an attempt to find a workable apparent wind angle that would allow us to make decent headway under sail alone, without resorting to an engine. The sea state also grew restless and began working heavily against us. Earlier than we had hoped, we found ourselves scanning the charts for a suitable anchorage where we could wait out the unfavourable weather for a night, or possibly several

Fawn Cove Respite

We reached the entrance to Fawn Cove in the evening, slipping in under the cover of darkness. A waning quarter moon hung in an otherwise cloudless sky, providing just enough light to avoid complete blackout conditions.

On the chart, the entrance looked distinctly challenging, and attempting it at night was probably foolhardy. Reefs fringed both sides of the narrow channel, which zig-zagged its way into the open bay. Fortunately, we had a reliable track recorded by another boat that had taken refuge here only days earlier. With that track loaded and confidence that staying precisely on it would keep us safe, we decided to proceed in. The decision was helped along by our growing eagerness to find shelter from the building weather and, more importantly, to finally get some proper rest. So, with hearts beating a little faster, we entered Fawn Cove at night.

Other than passing directly over a small fisherman’s mooring buoy, missing a potential rope around the propeller by less than two metres, the entrance into Fawn Cove proved surprisingly straightforward.

We dropped anchor, savoured the sudden silence, and breathed in the clean, unfamiliar scents carried on the night air before finally retiring to bed. The next morning was nothing short of brilliant. I had no idea what to expect, but the scene that greeted my eyes was spectacular. A sheltered lagoon, roughly the size of three cricket ovals, was partially enclosed by low-lying coral formations. On one side lay the flat, arid Sudanese coastline, while in the not-too-distant background, rugged mountains rose sharply against a bright blue, cloudless sky. The water was stunningly clear and as calm as a windless mountain lake. The only hint of the rough weather still raging further offshore was the steady wind sweeping across the cove. The surrounding low land was enough to flatten the sea state, but it offered little protection from the breeze itself.

We stayed for three nights, giving the weather time to ease. Although we had received official permission to anchor in Fawn Cove, it came with a firm condition: under no circumstances were we to go ashore. Sudan’s strict security measures would cause us plenty of head-scratching later in the journey, but for now we simply complied. In the meantime, we enjoyed the peace and serenity alongside three other yachts that had also taken refuge here. We rested, and tackled the inevitable boat jobs that become a way of life on longer passages.

One of those jobs was sending Zippy up the mast to inspect the rigging and other attached ancillaries. Zippy weighs about half as much as I do, yet she punches well above her weight with a surprising strength that her slender frame disguises. While the rigging could probably support me, the relentless cranking of the winch handle is exhausting work. Add to that my healthy respect for heights, and it’s clear why Zippy is the one who goes aloft.

Gives us our daily bread!

Reluctantly, we departed Fawn Cove. We had grown fond of its serene beauty, and the prospect of re-entering the headwinds held little appeal. Ahead lay a 100-nautical-mile hop north to our next destination: Suakin, Sudan.

Suakin sits on the western shore of the Red Sea and was once the region’s premier port. Today it plays second fiddle to Port Sudan, located about 50 kilometres (30 miles) further north, and a very distant second at that.

Centuries ago, Suakin was regarded as the height of medieval luxury along the Red Sea. Its old city, built entirely of coral, now lies in atmospheric ruins. As you enter the harbour, you still catch a faint echo of its former grandeur, but it is little more than a ghost of its former self. These days the port handles little beyond a fleet of passenger ferries shuttling pilgrims between Jeddah in Saudi Arabia and Sudan. Activity peaks during the Muslim holy month of Ramadan, when thousands cross the Red Sea destined for Mecca. Beyond the dilapidated port and crumbling old town, the modern settlement of Suakin, set a little further inland, appears to serve mainly as a dusty stopover for trucks hauling produce.

For yachts heading north (or south), Suakin’s position roughly halfway up the Red Sea makes it a convenient waypoint. After beating into headwinds for most of the 100-nautical-mile passage from Fawn Cove, we were more than ready to arrive. We looked forward to anchoring in the shallow waters at the upper reaches of the natural inlet that forms the harbour, the area designated for visiting yachts.

As we motored through the port, we passed the haunting village of ruins. With a little imagination, one could picture how delightfully exotic it must once have been. Now it stood as little more than a pile of coral rubble, with the skeletal remains of a few buildings quietly hinting at a richer past.

A few minutes after we dropped the anchor in Suakin Harbour, a local skiff approached, carrying a group of Sudanese men. All were dressed casually except for the gentleman seated at the bow, who waved at us warmly. Mohammed stood out in a crisp, bright white local robe that suggested authority. In the dusty environment, not a single speck marred his outfit.

With the help of his walking cane and noticeably artificial leg, he made surprisingly light work of climbing aboard Luna Blu. Without waiting for an invitation, he took a seat and introduced himself as our agent. Efficiently and politely, he explained what he needed from us and asked if we required any assistance in return.

We handed over our passports, boat documents, and a substantial sum in cash to cover his services and the diesel he would arrange. USD remained the preferred currency everywhere we had been since Sri Lanka, but every transaction demanded spotless notes. On every occasion, each bill was scrutinised carefully; any with the slightest crease, mark, or blemish was tossed back unceremoniously, with an expectant hand waiting for a clean replacement. It was curious, therefore, that back in Djibouti we had struggled to find any bank willing to exchange our crisp USD for local currency, a curious double standard indeed.

Once Mohammed had completed his forensic inspection of the cash and collected the documents, his work appeared finished. Without further ceremony, he rose, cane in hand, climbed back into his skiff, and sped off to repeat the process with the next arriving yacht.

Before we could even process what had just happened, another skiff pulled alongside to collect our empty jerry cans for diesel. Things were running with surprising efficiency, and the staff were friendly and welcoming. Given the premium price they charged for fuel, it was easy to see why, I suspect they made far more from diesel sales to yachts than from the agency fees.

As the skiff prepared to leave with our cans, one of the men handed us a shopping bag. The moment I took it, I could feel the warmth of freshly baked local bread. Few things bring me as much simple joy as fresh bread. We exchanged exaggerated thanks and waves before hurrying into the galley to devour the day’s baker’s delights.

The anchorage offered excellent protection, and the nights were wonderfully still, allowing us to catch up on much-needed sleep.

The following day, Mohammed arranged a minibus trip into town for a group of visiting yachties to reprovision. Our first stop was optimistically described as a supermarket. It was empty of customers until our busload of foreigners filled it, at which point it seemed to spring to life. I suspected Mohammed ran a profitable side hustle supplying gullible yacht crews. There were no price tags anywhere. When we reached the checkout, the cashier barely glanced at the items while furiously tapping random numbers into a calculator. We had exchanged US$100 earlier for a thick brick of local currency whose denominations were a complete mystery to us. When the total appeared on the machine, making no sense whatsoever, I simply handed over the entire brick and let him take what he thought matched his figure. To this day, I have no idea how much we actually spent.

The next stop was far more enjoyable: a vibrant local fruit and vegetable market with a butchers’ hall alongside. This was deepest, darkest Sudan, and I loved it. Under the shaded open-air stalls lay a magnificent kaleidoscope of fresh produce. Piles of watermelons dominated the scene, curious in one of the driest places on earth. There were apples, oranges, mangoes, grapes, carrots, tomatoes, lettuce, cucumbers, and mountains of lady’s fingers. It had everything we needed for reprovisioning. We immediately wished we had come here first instead of wasting time at the “supermarket.”

After some light haggling with a smiling vendor, and quickly agreeing to his first offer, which no doubt included a healthy premium for foreigners, we left satisfied. The produce was fresh and the prices felt perfectly reasonable.

A few photographs with curious locals, who seemed mesmerised by the gaggle of visiting foreigners, and we were soon herded back onto the minibus for the short drive back to the sanctuary of our boats.

And that was a wrap for Suakin. With a favourable weather window we weighed anchor the following morning and continued our passage north. But not before taking receipt of one last delivery of fresh bread. It was a genuine highlight!

Sudanese Dust and a retreat into Marsa Shin’ab

The Sudanese coast is littered with reefs, some clearly marked on charts, many others not. It is a treacherous stretch of water.

We had originally planned to push on to an anchorage roughly 350 nautical miles further north, but the weather gods had other ideas. A strong northerly blow was forecast, so we decided instead to seek shelter in a promising inlet shown on the chart.

Marsa Shin’ab is a dramatic inlet that opens up generously once you negotiate the tight, winding entrance. The surrounding terrain offered no real protection from the wind, but it promised to flatten the sea state should the predicted northerly arrive.

And arrive it did.

Two other yachts had made the same diversion. As soon as we dropped anchor and secured the boat, the breeze began to build. Within hours it was howling at a steady 40 knots. At one point a heavy thudding vibration ran through the hull, the wind had partially unfurled our Code Zero sail. We had no choice but to drop it immediately before any serious damage occurred. Retrieving a half-furled sail in 40 knots of wind is no easy task.

With the wind came the sandstorm. We had never experienced anything like it. Visibility dropped to just a few metres as the rushing air turned thick and brown with dust. The storm raged well into the evening. By morning it had passed, leaving behind a fine layer of red Sudanese dust that coated every surface of the boat. It was everywhere, in the cockpit, down below, and deep inside every crevice. We would continue finding traces of that fine red powder in the most unexpected nooks and crannies for many weeks to come.

Mersa Zaraba and the near miss!

In Shakespeare’s Henry V, King Henry rallies his weary troops with the famous cry: “Once more unto the breach, dear friends.” And so it was for us. We summoned what courage and fortitude we had left and prepared once more to re-enter the fray that was the Red Sea, a body of water that had shown us precious little kindness as we inched our way north.

This time, however, the conditions were finally in our favour. The wind came strong across the beam, driving Luna Blu along at a cracking pace. For the first time in days it looked as though we might reach our next safe haven comfortably.

Perhaps we were a little too optimistic in aiming all the way to Mersa Zaraba in Egypt. We had simply grown weary of Sudan. Enough red dust had found its way into every crevice of the boat to serve as a permanent reminder, and we were keen to push as far as possible into Egyptian waters.

For all its intrigue and fascination to first-time visitors, the Sudanese coastline had not felt particularly welcoming. Many of the apparent safe anchorages were off-limits for one reason or another. The ongoing civil war had clearly made the authorities wary of everything and everyone. It was an unwelcoming coast, both physically and officially. The Egyptian coast, we soon discovered, was not so different. Our agent had sent us a strict list of permitted anchorages and others that were absolutely forbidden. When I enquired about one that appeared on neither list, the reaction on the phone was pure panic. “No!” the agent barked. “You can only visit the anchorages I have listed as allowed.”

And so we pressed on toward Mersa Zaraba, arriving later than we would have liked, just after dusk. We were confident of the entrance, however, having been given reliable tracks by several other boats that had gone in before us. When we arrived, the anchorage was deceptively calm. Not a zephyr stirred the air, and the sea lay as flat as a millpond. Tired from the long day, I made a critical mistake. Lulled by the benign conditions, I did not reverse hard enough to set the anchor properly into the seabed. An unforgivable lapse.

Several hours later the wind began to build, funnelling strongly from the north. It continued to strengthen until I was up on deck, anxiously monitoring our position. Six other yachts shared the tight anchorage that night. Using the anchor alarm on my phone, I watched our movements closely. We were starting to drag, slowly at first, then with increasing speed. The wind was now gusting into the mid-40s, and the sea had turned into a chaotic mess. What had begun as a gentle slide soon became an uncontrolled drift.

Action stations.

We were being pushed dangerously close to a neighbouring boat and the surrounding reefs. The engine was slammed into forward to halt our movement while Zippy rushed to the foredeck to raise the anchor. The boat was pitching and bucking violently in the steep seas, and the howling wind made any communication impossible. Eventually the anchor was raised form the sea-bed. We motored to a new spot and redeployed it quickly. This time, with 45 knots pushing us astern, the anchor dug in hard with a satisfying jolt. We paid out plenty of chain, secured everything, and finally held firm.

In the chaos we had come within mere metres of colliding with another yacht. I was furious with myself for the earlier lapse in judgement. It had been a dangerously close call.

With the anchor now well set, we were able to rest and ride out the storm. It continued to rage as the sun rose the next morning, revealing magnificent views of the Sinai Mountains silhouetted against a foreground of angry, white-capped seas. By then we had left the Red Sea proper and entered the Gulf of Suez. We were close, oh so tantalisingly close, to putting this wretched stretch behind us, and we were more than eager to move on.

The Final Push

All that now lay between us and the entrance to the Suez Canal was a final 150 nautical miles up the Gulf of Suez. The Red Sea was technically behind us, and I was more than happy to leave it that way. After our near disaster the previous night, we decided to push on despite the less than perfect weather and put this section of the passage behind us once and for all.

We motor-sailed most of the way north from Mersa Zaraba to Suez. The 24-hour passage was largely uneventful, a constant dance between sailing and motor-sailing as the wind shifted between being too close to the nose and perfectly on the beam.

What had deteriorated noticeably, however, was the temperature. The air, especially at night, had turned frigid. We found ourselves wearing full foul-weather gear simply to stay warm. One of Luna Blu’s less convenient features is her complete lack of enclosure around the helm. Perfect for the tropics, but utterly useless in these conditions at this time of year. Overnight the temperature had dropped into single figures, and during the day, with the added wind chill, it barely reached the low teens.

At dawn the following morning, Suez finally appeared on the horizon. A wave of excitement ran through me. Suddenly we were surrounded by a vast fleet of commercial ships patiently waiting their turn to transit the canal northbound.

As instructed, we made our way to Anchorage C1. We dropped the hook at 5:30 a.m. and waited for the Suez Canal Authorities to arrive and measure the boat. That official measurement would determine the transit fee — US$471 in our case.

The Suez Canal (Part 1)

The Suez Canal is a remarkable man-made waterway connecting the Red Sea to the Mediterranean Sea. Constructed by the Suez Canal Company between 1859 and 1869, it was officially opened on 17 November 1869 after ten years of monumental effort. By linking the Mediterranean and Red Seas, the canal dramatically shortens the journey between the North Atlantic and the northern Indian Ocean, avoiding the long detour around the Cape of Good Hope and saving approximately 7,000 kilometres (4,300 miles).

Stretching 120 nautical miles in length, with an average depth of 25 metres and a width varying between 225 and 290 metres, the Suez Canal stands as a stunning example of human ingenuity.

Transiting the canal in either direction requires the services of an official Canal Pilot on board every vessel. For our northbound passage, our pilot, Mohammad, boarded soon after we reached the entrance and we were quickly underway, joining a convoy of commercial ships heading northward toward Ismailia, roughly halfway along the canal.

The initial excitement of entering the canal, with giant container ships and tankers passing within metres, soon gave way to a more monotonous journey. Under the pilot’s guidance, we motored steadily along, though not quite as quickly as he would have liked.

Evidence of the canal’s immense strategic importance is visible everywhere. Military outposts and lookout towers are dotted along both banks, a constant reminder of the waterway’s vital role to Egypt and indeed global trade.

Ismalia & The Suez Canal (Part 2)

For yachts transiting the Suez Canal, the journey is conveniently divided into two stages, with the modern Ismailia Yacht Marina conveniently located roughly halfway.

After approximately 60 nautical miles of northbound travel, we arrived at this recently built marina. It serves as a welcome break, allowing crews to split the 120-nautical-mile canal into two more manageable sections. Ismailia also makes a practical base for reprovisioning at the large Carrefour supermarket or for venturing further afield to explore Egypt’s historic sights.

We stayed for nearly ten days, enjoying a well-earned rest and the chance to thoroughly clean Luna Blu of the thick red dust that had accumulated during our long haul up the Sudanese coast.

Our days were relaxed: occasional trips into town for provisioning, plenty of rest, and enjoyable socialising with fellow yachties, swapping stories of distant anchorages and hard-won passages.

The marina itself was modern and well-equipped with all the necessary facilities. However, it did not feel particularly welcoming. Because the marina sits within the secure Suez Canal precinct, yachts do not formally clear into Egypt while berthed here. As a result, security is constantly present. Guards in bullet-proof vests patrolled the grounds, and high walls and gates reinforced the sense of separation. Perhaps the tensions further north in the region were weighing on Egyptian authorities, but the atmosphere felt somewhat eerie and unwelcoming.

After nearly ten days we decided we had rested enough. The Indian Ocean and Red Sea, for all their fascination, now lay behind us. We were within touching distance of the Mediterranean, and it was time to move on.

At 6 a.m. sharp the pilot boarded, ready to guide us through the second half of the canal, another 60 nautical miles from Ismailia to Port Said.

The passage was largely uneventful until the very end, when the pilot boat came alongside to collect our pilot. Suddenly we were on our own again. A couple of miles further on we cleared the final buoy and the Mediterranean Sea opened up before us.

Greek Landfall still lay three or four days ahead, but we had crossed a major threshold. According to our plans, the Mediterranean would become our home for the next seven months before we tackled the Atlantic.

A sailor’s plans, as they say, are written in the sand at low tide.

It mattered little what the future held. We had achieved something quite wonderful. I took one last look astern as Port Said slowly receded into the distance. Suez, Suakin, Djibouti, the Maldives, Sri Lanka. All those hard-won places were sinking behind us, but they would remain forever etched in memory.

Epilogue

As I put the finishing touches on this chapter, I find myself anchored in a beautiful Greek cove, savouring slabs of pork and unrestricted access to bars — so forgive me if my closing thoughts on the Red Sea and Suez Canal are a touch less than charitable. Time will mend the wounds; but for now, the sting is still fresh.