5. Showers

Around eleven o’clock in the evening, we leave the harbour where Ivan has his boat moored. It’s a ten-meter Petterson sailboat. We quickly cross the shipping route. The water is calm. There are more ships anchored, waiting for cargo, than sailing around.

Across a fluorescent sea, we head south. A mile off the coast, the bow is clamped for hours between a bright star high in the port shroud and a red beacon on the shore, starboard of the mast. Ivan and Maria dive into their bunks shortly after departure. The course is due south, 180 degrees. The oversized compass comes from a merchant ship and serves us well.

Further south lies the Bosporus, leading to the Mediterranean Sea. From the port of Istanbul to Varna, it’s about 180 nautical miles over water, approximately 335 kilometres. The Bosporus is a bottleneck that Western ships and yachts prefer to bypass this year. Recently, a new gateway has opened, one that the Balkans hope will further unlock the Mare Incognitum. As if hard-fought borders don’t exist, a canal connecting the North Sea in the west directly to the Black Sea in the east is under construction, traversing Europe: the Rhine-Main-Danube Canal.

Even in the time of Charlemagne, the dream of such a connection between the Rhine and Danube river basins existed. Part of the canal is already in use, and in September 1992, the entire RMD canal opens. Romania and Bulgaria hope this will boost freight transport. But along the shores of the Black Sea, everyone also hopes for a tourism boost. That is much needed. Bulgaria’s economy suffered a 40% decline in living standards after the dissolution of the Soviet Union in 1989.

On the Bulgarian coast, a land breeze blows offshore from early May to late September during the nights, calming down in the morning. A few hours later, a breeze from the sea picks up, which will shift during the day. However, the weather has been unsettled in the past few days. At night, the wind shifts in all directions. The first hour after our departure is calm, and the motor is needed.

Then, a gentle breeze brings warm pine scent from the land. The wind strengthens. Near the town of Byala, the sea is already foaming, and the waves around us are vigorously rushing; occasionally, green-glowing waves toss the ship. The beam reach gradually shifts to the quarter. The sky becomes overcast, and looking backward, we see bright lightning bolts tearing apart a black curtain. The Petterson races purring and trembling over the waves, pressed closely by the quartering wind.

The sea lives up to its ancient Greek name. In Greek antiquity, navigation was difficult here, especially in heavy storms or thick fog, so the ancient Greeks called this sea Pontos Axeinos: ‘Dark’ or ‘Gloomy Sea’. This was documented as early as the first century AD by the Roman geographer Pomponius Mela. According to him, the term originated from Greek travelers who, after enduring storms and dense fog, often had to deal with belligerent local populations along the coasts. The Romans were probably more familiar with the Black Sea a few centuries later. They referred to it as Pontos Euxinos: the ‘Hospitable Sea’.

Whether hospitable or not, suddenly and without warning, we’re close-hauled and the wind intensifies rapidly. Foam crests keep appearing. With the mainsail and gennaker unreefed, the ship broaches after a few strong gusts. We’re teetering between capsizing and staying dry. Then, with Ivan’s warning, we quickly furl the gennaker and hoist a smaller headsail. As the sun rises around five o’clock, Aeolus shrinks after a final breath from the east. We’ve reached Cape Nos Emin. The engine needs to be started, chugging away sleepily.

An hour later, it’s fully light. There’s no ship in sight in the wide distance.

“If you sail along the coast now and you’re not familiar with the area, you’re in for a challenge,” Russian sailor Vladimir Troitsky said earlier that week. “There are no pilots, and charts are often difficult to read due to the Cyrillic script. But work is being done on that.”

That was on the Sunday before departure, late in the morning. In the cabin of the Hermes, smoked sausages swayed from the ceiling. One of the sailors cut a few substantial slices of sausage and cheese and filled some bowls with olives and strips of tomato. With his crew of six, Vladimir was aboard the Hermes, sailing from Sevastopol in Crimea to Istanbul. All crew members were members of the Black Sea Navy Fleet’s sailing club of the Soviet Union. The men were from Lithuania, Russia, and Ukraine. There were no nationalist tensions aboard the Hermes. “We are all friends of the sea,” they unanimously declared.

A few glasses of vodka later, the camaraderie between east and west was complete.