The quay--part dock and part stage on which the many acts of Med mooring and the ensuing dramas unfold.

Cruising the Mediterranean is an experience of delight and frustration. Being first in and tied off then watching the rest of the fleet arrive is perhaps one of the world's greatest spectator sports. The following tales are real, though to some, they might smack of nationalistic stereotyping and a vivid imagination. It may be only a coincident that these nationalistic traits seem to consistently repeat themselves. These are just stories of multi-national cruisers arriving to "Med tie" to the same rock wall on a small Greek island village.

As the bright sun reaches the mastheads on boats parked in the west part of the harbor, the flood of boats surge to quaysides in Mediterranean ports all seeking that beam-width of space along the stone walls. This daily shuffle of "Med Mooring" requires some nautical skill and some international diplomacy. What actually takes place is something else.

The French approach to the wall demonstrates with skill and confidence. Their boats, always a modern French racer-cruiser sparsely equipped and devoid of gear on deck, typically has about three couples aboard—youngish and generally unaware of surrounding boats or events. They are only attentive to the narrow space where their boat fits with millimeters to spare. A French helmsman, it appears, can judge this space from a hundred meters away. It usually requires less than typical space since they do not carry fenders. A male (always) at the helm backs the boat at about one-half the fastest forward speed possible. Another male at the anchor forward uses a hand held electric switch controller at the end of a cord to lower the anchor. He lets go without command and always places it precisely in a perfect setting, not fouling rodes of previously anchored boats nearby. The women seem to pay no attention to this process but appear to be posing, very skimpily attired, for unseen photographers.

At the moment the boat is about to ram the wall, the foredeck crewman stops the anchor chain with a "sprong" and the helmsman simultaneously shifts the transmission from reverse gear to forward without backing the throttle from the 2500 (or more) rpm setting. Two of the young women deftly leap the short step to the wall with perfect timing, one with a mooring line (the only one aboard, undersized, frayed on one end where it parted previously) and rapidly fastens it off with an expertly thrown hitch through an iron ring. The other woman (all are wearing high heeled slippers) grabs the tail off the line from the boat tied alongside and uses it for the other mooring line. The boat surges forward as the dropping anchor chain centenary tows it until the two stern lines stretch, stopping the forward motion and tugs it back with a lunge, springing once more nearly to the wall. As it stops just inches away, again stopped by a taught anchor chain, the remaining crew aboard saunters off.

English crews show a little more restraint. Frequently, a British yacht—wooden, heavily laden with many coats of carefully stroked on paint will putter up and down the line of moored boats looking for the "just right" location. It has to have enough room so the hand woven rope fenders they carry will not scuff on adjoining boats. As the crew, likely an older man and woman—with the friendly faces of a favorite aunt and uncle—seek their space, they make up lines and select the proper size fenders from a lazarette—half the size of the boat—containing enough ground handling gear to outfit several French boats. Once they choose the site, a calculated and funereal like procession begins as their yacht backs in.

Usually, all traffic in the harbor stops of necessity during this pageant. The woman handles a boat hook, nearly as long as the boat, with the deftness of a knight with a jousting spear. Then comes a complicated task. Auntie must still wield the boat hook, making only light touches on adjacent boats using only enough pressure to keep their yacht tracking evenly back into the slot. While at the same time, she lets go the anchor by releasing the brake on the oversized manual windlass. This huge iron machine with its massive wheels and cogs, painted with art-deco trim, begins a percussion concert with wheel's squealing, chain chunking and pawls clicking.

When the yacht is still nearly a boat-length from the wall, uncle snubs the tiller with a line just fitted for the purpose (pre-adjusted at the correct rudder setting for backing) slipped over the macraméd varnished-mahogany tiller-handle. Then he casually walks to the stern to slip one mooring line through a ring on the what might be the windward quarter—if the wind were blowing, returning it to the quarter cleat and making a quick hitch. As the yacht stops (by the anchor), he attaches the other quarter line then later rigs amidships lines to the wall as well—all with proper chafing protection. The engine is idling in neutral. Its low boom-boom sound echoing through the harbor slows its cadence as it comes to a silent rest with a final wheeze. The yacht is finally secured to the ancient stones with at least four lines in the calm harbor in addition to the massive anchor dug into the harbor's bottom. The couple take seats in the cockpit sitting on hand embroidered cushions—nautical scenes—and lift water glasses of gin to each other. No words have passed their lips. They watch the sunset and wait to make sure that their yacht is safely moored. They are still like this several hours later having spoken to no one—or to each other—still sipping gin.

If the French demonstrate unparalleled skills at boat handling—the Germans do not. Germans go to France to rent boats because France does not require a license or demonstrated skills. Germany does, but only the French can qualify there. By now, you may think I am making this up and this next account might just confirm to you my creative imagination. I have never been accused of being creative, and what follows is true.

A boat crewed by three German men back in next to our boat. The empty space is about three or four boats wide, which leaves me perhaps a little too relaxed. The crew aboard are big—big men. Big fat men burned red from the unaccustomed Mediterranean sun—all over. At least it appears, all over. They are wearing the tiniest of black bikini shorts only, stretched to elastic limits. However, the shorts, for the most part, lay covered by rolls of fat making all but a very brief view of black cloth visible where no one really wants to look anyway.

If the gods are with you, not only will you find a spot to park, but occasionally fuel services will be available as well.

One passenger stands at the bow holding the switchbox controlling the electric anchor windless. The anchor hangs ready, just dragging its point across the water's surface. It probably was here from the last retrieval. The second passenger stands at the mast. Just standing. And the third (passenger?) is at the helm. However, to make backing easier, he moves to the forward side of the binnacle facing aft so he can see where he is backing without the need for twisting his corpulent body around. It would work, too, if he realizes his hand movements now required at the wheel are just exactly opposite to what he is use to while steering from the other side of the pedestal.

This is the way they back in. First, the boat swings to port, the driver's right—er, left? He spins the wheel to correct, but the stern swings further. He spins the wheel the other way wildly in desperation but now the bow is swerving off. Not one of the passengers is saying anything to assist the other. All are motionless except the now frantic helmsman/passenger. Each is seemingly waiting for orders. Instructions come now from all the nearby yachties yelling in several languages—but not German!

The three passengers wait, staring off into space anticipating the commands to guide them. The boat still moves, now mostly sideways. The bow passenger lets the anchor go but not on a line with the intended slip as the bow continues in wild swings. He lets out thirty-five feet of chain and stops it. The water is thirty feet deep! To save our boat and relieve the desperation of the frantic helmsman/passenger, we grapple the boat along side us and tie it to our boat before it strikes ours the second time. The helmsman/passenger continues desperately trying to maneuver the now secured boat unaware that he is no longer moving or in control. They stay tied along side us for the night after we spend a half hour unwinding their chain from our anchor rode. In the morning, they charge out after we untie them, then make an immediate hard left turn across our bow. No one ordered them to pull up the anchor! It drags across fouling our rode again. It was handy that they could understand English—I cannot speak German but for a while thought I was.

The Italians are a delight to watch. They usually have a fairly large boat (out of necessity) and usually quite stylish. Typically, papa is at the helm accompanied by three or four children of early ages—each doing a little tugging at the wheel. Older children and parents sit about on the cabin trunk and somewhere in the middle of the crowd is grandma—or grandmas. The foredeck is occupied by two or three older male cousins/brothers/nephews/sons. Everyone is talking. They are talking loud with an emphatic urgency enhanced by waving arms and it seems, no one is listening. What they are saying has nothing to do with the boat's navigation. Papa backs the boat in and the bow men get the anchor out in about the right place at about the right time. No commands. No instructions. An aunt/sister/niece/daughter along the deck casually gives a hand so the adjacent boats are not bumped. At the stern, a son/nephew/cousin/brother/friend takes up the stern lines and jumps off getting the boat tied off to the wall. Simplicity…no fuss.

The cacophony of voices never varies. No verbal directions seem to come from anywhere. No conversation (if it can be considered conversation where all are talking at the same time—with wildly gesticulating arms) is halted by the process of docking the boat. As soon as the boat is fast, out comes the food. Grandmas/aunts/mothers/nieces/sisters all toting baskets, pots, towels, wrapped bowls, bags, handfuls of food, pass up from below spreading the bounty around the cockpit and cabin top where all begin a feast like a fast was just ending. It is a joyful boat. Mouthfuls still do not stifle the machine-gunning of voices. Somehow, waving arms can still keep feeding the mouth without loosing any of their meanings.

The American boats have their own signature moves in the delicate ballet required of backing a heavy boat very nearly into a concrete wall.

The Americans too are identified by their actions, which tend to be unique. The American cruising boat obviously, shows signs of many miles and experience. It is over laden with "essential" cruising equipment, so much so, that is sometimes difficult to even make out the crew in all the antenna frames, outboard motors, life rafts, fishing gear, spare ropes bundled and lashed to lifelines, fuel and water jugs, awnings, dinghies, solar panels, wind generators, whisker poles, oars, boarding ladders, surfboards, boogie-boards and other cruising necessities packed along the decks. The crew is usually just a couple—an effervescent couple. They approach the space, with directions from the quay, a little timidly—with caution and a fear that some strangers may be watching and see them making an embarrassing mistake. The foredeck member (gal, of course) lets the anchor go (nervously—worried it may be over another's rode) at the helmsman's command. The guy stops the boat by calling for her to stop the anchor rode running out aided with a slight burst of power in forward gear but not too much to permit the anchor to dig in properly. All very professional.

Then she stumbles back to the stern through the obstacle course of "cruising gear" to take up the stern lines, stopping momentarily amidships to drop over the forgotten fenders and shove off the adjacent boat about to bump. Embarrassed at the oversight and the almost intrusion on the other unattended boat. The helm guy holds position with the throttle, but with not quite enough power (not wanting to offend the tranquility of the harbor), while the line-handling gal jumps across a dangerously wide gorge to the seawall. She leaps, slightly mistiming the jump, just as the sinking anchor chain starts towing the boat forward. The gal holds a stern line a little short and it almost jerks her back into the gap between the boat and stone wall. Fortunately for her, the gang waiting for their arrival grabs her, preventing an embarrassing topple into the water. The two couples on the quay are waiting, holding the space open by chasing off others (all but the French) trying to back in before the arrival of these "very dear friends."

The two guys grab the lines and tie off the boat while the gals hug—all three dancing in a single leaping primordial dance—squealing in unison. It is the joyful reunion of good friends long parted. When the helm guy steps ashore all do another round of hugging. All talk excitedly, exploding simultaneously in laughter, exchanging questions and the showering of local knowledge gained by the early arrivers on the newly arrived. There is a lot of hand patting bodies. Plans for the evening are offered up for decisions by this group of newly reunited best of friends who appear to bystanders to have been parted for months—or even years. It is an exuberant reunion! With the boat tied off, they all wander down the quay—with a glance back admiring the over laden boat—hugging, laughing and each expressing the joys at being together again after being parted since they left the previous harbor that very morning.

Although these experiences are laughable at times and annoying occasionally, once we are all "spider webbed" in for the night stern to the ancient stone wall on a magical little island perched in the blue expanse of the Mediterranean, we all share the secret camaraderie only known to cruising sailors.

Tom and Carolyn Beard have spent 16 years extensively sailing over 160,000 miles with nearly two circumnavigations as a cruising couple. Most of the journeys were in a Tayana-37, Moonshadow. The last crossing of the Pacific was in a Tayana-52 and a delivery from the Philippines to Singapore in another Tayana-52. Currently they own a Panda 40. Tom has authored many articles on maritime history and three books, including Wonderful Flying Machines, a history of the rescue helicopter.