Gibraltar

The day after staggering ashore with weak legs and creaky knees after many days of being confined to the boat, we set out to explore the Rock of Gibraltar. We had actually planned to hike to the top, but strangely, the price of a one-way cable car ride, including entrance fee to the nature reserve on the top, was less expensive by $2 than the entrance fee alone. I made the lady at the tourist office clarify this to me three times before I was convinced we would actually save money by taking the cable car ride. (Then we scored big points with the kids, by agreeing to spring for the gondola ride to the top - a distinctly uncharacteristic move for their miserly parents.)

As we got to the top and waited for the gondola doors to open, I read aloud a sign that said, "We apologize for the poor repair of the paint on these buildings. It is because of the Rock Apes, whose population has been increasing. We are working to resolve the problem."

"That's stupid," commented Michael, "apologizing for something that's not their fault."

"That's the English for you!" remarked another man behind me, in a distinctly British accent.

The view from the top was grand. There, to our left, through a cloud of squawking and circling seagulls, was the Mediterranean Sea that we had now successfully crossed. Ahead, across the Strait of Gibraltar, were the misty purple mountains of Morocco. But our captain had his eyes fixed on the vastness of the North Atlantic, stretching out into infinity to our right. Since the beginning of our trip, the North Atlantic is what has been haunting Herbert in the middle of the night. Every time I looked over at him, he was pensively scrutinizing its ruffled gray surface, as if looking for a clue about what it held in store.

At the top of the Rock we marveled at the hundreds of huge seagulls, with adorable dabs of red lipstick on their beaks. We discovered that the really talkative ones were mothers trying to warn us away from their young, which had the reverse of its intended effect on us. Once we realized that it was nesting season, we could spot small gray flightless baby seagulls everywhere, hiding in crevices on the rock face.

We visited the famous paint-destroying Barbary apes, the only wild primates to survive in Europe. These were not apes at all but a species of large macaque, a monkey with a lion-like mane, bushy and expressive eyebrows and a fierce gaze. Other tourists laughingly touched and fed them, right under signs that said, "Do not feed the Apes. Apes might bite!" But we, still suspicious of macaques after Christopher was bitten by one in Borneo, kept a respectful distance away, knowing that they had canine teeth like those of a German Shepherd.

At the top of the Rock is the fabulous St. Michael's Cave, its fantastic natural formations illuminated with coloured lights. There's actually a concert hall in one of its large chambers, and we plunked ourselves down in seats reserved for a forthcoming musical performance, apparently for a delegation of Russian dignitaries. I grabbed Sir Geoffrey Pattie's seat, Jonathan sat himself down in a chair reserved for Vladimir Plovzhnikov, and our Captain, of course, assumed the seat of the Chief Minister. Thus ensconced, we munched on Chips Ahoy and enjoyed classical music piped in through invisible speakers.

Then we explored siege tunnels built during the 1700s, during the last great siege by the Spanish, and enlarged during the Second World War into a labyrinth of 35 miles of tunnels boring deep into the Rock. Ever since the British withstood the Spanish sieges, the expression "Solid as the Rock of Gibraltar" has become common in the English language. It's with some sadness, therefore, that I am forced to reveal a disturbing truth: the Rock of Gibraltar is anything but solid. Not only is it honeycombed with miles of man-made tunnels and natural caves, but we noticed something even more troubling: huge chains and sheets of heavy steel mesh were actually holding the upper part of the Rock together. The Rock of Gibraltar is not solid! One's mind reels before the far-reaching implications of this discovery.

We tramped all over the (admittedly solid-feeling) Rock all day long, achieving the opposite of its intended effect on my (distinctly un-solid-feeling) legs. On the way down we stopped at an old Moorish castle, where Michael, Christopher and I collapsed on a plush Persian carpet. When other tourists came by, we explained grandly from our position of contentment on the floor that we owned the place, but we didn't mind if they looked in. They didn't answer, but only looked at us suspiciously through narrowed eyes.

The next day turned into open boat day on Northern Magic. Our first visitor was Wally Samann from Ottawa, a Citizen reader vacationing in Spain who made us feel very special by making a trip to Gibraltar to visit us. I liked Wally. He gave me chocolates.

As Wally was leaving, we received a visit from an Australian sailing family. It's rare to meet cruising kids, so there was great excitement about their visit, especially as the two girls definitely were classified as "babes" by the discerning young men on our crew -- who proceeded nonetheless to clean them out in a game of poker. Then, as the Australians were leaving, we had yet more visitors, an elegantly dressed couple bearing a giant bouquet of flowers that must have denuded an entire greenhouse.

Jimmy and Teresa Peralta, members of an old Gibraltar family who own two grocery stores and a wholesale food business, knew about us thanks to Paul Dole, another Citizen reader to whom we already owe a great deal. It was Paul who introduced us to the wonderful Captain George in Athens. (Our advice about the ever-helpful and well-connected Paul Dole is: don't leave home without him.)

Jimmy and Teresa treated us to a spectacular meal at a fisherman's village. Even those of us who are confirmed non-seafood lovers raved over the garlic prawns, the deep fried calamari and the battered shrimp. But most interesting of all was to hear their discussion, and that of their son, Paul, a well-informed Gibraltar attorney, about the recent history of Gibraltar and its effects on the 30,000 people who call Gibraltar their home.

The ongoing, mostly undeclared siege between Spain and England over that huge anomalous rock was far more of a problem than we had ever suspected. The Peraltas described with passion and anger how Spain frequently prevents people from crossing the border without good cause, and contrary to the conditions of membership in the European Union. Once a Gibraltar wedding party, with a large reception and dinner booked in a nearby Spanish town, was arbitrarily turned back at the border. Their wedding day was ruined. We ourselves had watched a little girls' gymnastic competition on local TV, in which several of the school-aged children had inexplicably been prevented from crossing the border and had to miss the competition for which they had trained and prepared.

"If Spain wants Gibraltar, why does it think that harassing Gibraltarians will make them more enthusiastic about joining up with Spain?" I asked.

"That's a good question," Paul answered. "Who knows what they are thinking?"

"What's true," interjected his mother, "is that Gibraltarians, even those of Spanish background as we are, have become totally anti-Spain. In the referendum, 12,138 of us voted to remain with England; only 44 voted to join Spain. But Spain doesn't even acknowledge that we have the right to decide our own future. And England doesn't want to make too big a fuss over us, because they have so many trading ties with Spain."

We discovered that Canada is in very good standing in Gibraltar, however, thanks to our tough stand against Spain in the Spanish fishing dispute some years back. The Canadian government had confiscated a Spanish fishing boat for illegally fishing in Canadian waters. Teresa told me there was even a senior citizens' home that had proudly hoisted up a Canadian flag in support of our courageous stand.

Another day, the Peraltas invited us to their immaculate home in a low-rise condominium building overlooking the harbour. While the boys swam in the outdoor pool, Teresa baked up an extravagant and heavenly marzipan pastry and coconut cookies, and sent us back to the boat with what little remained, along with packages of excellent Spanish ham. We were left feeling quite undeserving of all this fuss, but grateful nonetheless.

But it was now time to put our sightseeing and socializing aside, and get Northern Magic ready for her last big trial of our circumnavigation. Herbert went on a binge of inspecting, repairing and adjusting. Our new flexible coupling arrived promptly and without drama, along with the final five episodes of Survivor II. Now that we have the tapes, I can confess that we faked the entire coupling repair story. It was just a ruse to solicit another care package from home, get our hands on those videotapes and find out at long last who won.

Each day we studied weather charts for the timing of our next passage to the Azores, a small group of islands in the middle of the Atlantic. Day after day, we frowned to see cold fronts, lows, isobars squeezing close together on our path, particularly around Newfoundland. Having just read The Perfect Storm, it made me feel pretty queasy. I began to understand why Herbert kept looking pensively west. Even when there were no lows, the wind invariably came from a bad direction.

But ultimately there was no longer any reason to wait; the boat was fixed up, rigging checked, bilge pump and coupling fixed, five meals prepared in advance. Our splendid friends the Peraltas appeared, bearing armloads of parting gifts: T-shirts, chocolates, gummi-bears (how did they know about Herbert's secret midnight passion?), silver-plated souvenirs of Gibraltar. We'd all showered, and Christopher had taken his last bath in our laundry tub in the marina shower stall. Sixteen loads of laundry had been handwashed and dried, and all the linen on the boat was fresh and clean. Charts were organized and studied, waypoints plotted. We were ready as we'd ever be to tackle the North Atlantic.

Note from your web hosts
For photos of Gibraltar, see our Slide Show