Jessie & Luke Cruise Morocco

By Jessie Zevalkink-Yeats

We read as much as we could about sailing to Morocco. Too much. In fact, I wish I hadn’t read a thing. It was equivalent to searching WebMD when you are concerned about your health: All signs pointing towards danger. It’s incorrect.

I place my fingertips on either side of the concrete wall and position my feet on the indicated area above the hole. I squat down to the original way humans were created to defecate. Apprehensive about my balance and blood flow that’s been cut off below my knees, I go. It’s a miracle how perfect the angle is. It goes into the ground without a noise. I use the water spigot and bucket provided to “flush.” I stand, proud, and exit the room with the hole in the ground. I am at a police station in Morocco. Luke and I have just sailed here.

We read as much as we could about sailing to Morocco. Too much. In fact, I wish I hadn’t read a thing. It was equivalent to searching WebMD when you are concerned about your health: All signs point towards danger. It’s incorrect. Most of it. We had our concerns about sailing to Africa. There was the language barrier, attracting unwanted attention, being a bunch of western blondes on a beautiful sailing ship who sailed without insurance. I wasn’t confident I had the correct papers for Tato the cat. And, I was entering a country as a female captain, where many females still have to be given permission to drive a vehicle. I had my concerns, and I knew I was going to make my mother very nervous.

Getting knocked down off the coast of Portugal had resulted in two months of grueling boat yard work. Important repairs had to be made before sailing to Morocco, and ultimately to cross the ocean again. For example, building a brand new rudder. Finding the right materials and tools took twice the time we expected it to. We did not get splashed back into the sea until just before the new year. Itching wildly for the next challenge, our hearts were set on Morocco, despite the lack of reliable information. We wanted an experience, not a tropical island.

We plotted approximately 350 nautical miles across the Straights of Gibraltar, marking our way in little Xs on our NV Charts over flat seas and tailwinds accurately forecasted from MAZU. Marking these charts is a navigator’s greatest joy. Progress appears slow at first; but, centimeter by centimeter, the Xs create a path, and as the days pass this visual becomes deeply satisfying. Eventually, these charts become precious souvenirs, antiques hanging on walls, inspiring nostalgia and pride. This short passage to Morocco gifted us desert sunrises with densely saturated reds and oranges. Infinite stars encouraged your mind to wander into an alternate universe. Contrails of phosphorescence were stirred up by visiting dolphins each night. It was, without question, the most beautiful passage I have ever sailed.

After waiting a few miles off the coast for sunrise, we pulled into Essaouira, a bustling fishing port and unknowingly touristy town. We were the only sailboat. A man waved us over to a cement wall, speaking to us in French, which none of us speak. He wants the captain to come with him, right now. I climb up the ladder with my paperwork and he shifts his head in confusion. I follow two “guards” to the Harbor Master’s office, reluctantly walking away from my husband and home. We walk, and walk, and walk, until I follow a man through a corridor to a simple office cooled by cement walls and soft light. He speaks no English, and pushes some French paperwork in my direction. I fill out three sheets of paper work to my best ability, knowing that he likely won’t be able to read what I write. I pay him in euros and he accepts, even though their currency is dirham. The Harbor Master sends me to the Coast Guard station. I fill out three more sheets of the same paper. The Coast Guard sends me to the Police station, where I fill out three more sheets of the same paper. Three offices within the same block, and a dozen broken-English conversations later, I find myself in the room with the hole in the ground. This is adding up to be an epic cultural experience.

We want to go to the desert. I ask several different men in different kinds of uniforms if it is “safe” to leave our boat unattended. Don’t google this question. This tactic is exactly the same as looking up several weather forecasts and choosing to trust the one you like the most. Three completely separate men, tell me as long as we lock the boat, that the boat is perfectly safe. “Very safe,” in fact. I don’t know if I believe it. But I want to. So I do. I knock on the Coast Guard boat docked just in front of us and with sign language and slow English, I ask if he can keep an eye out for us while we are away. He seems to understand and agree. And so, apprehensively, we go.

Desiree remains unattended for two days and two nights, in a completely unsecure harbor where the homeless beg, the children play, and locals and tourists are free to wander. I knew many would consider this a very bad idea, but I am feeling the pull between my responsibilities as captain and the innate desire to explore. The part of me that believes that people are good wins over the part of me that understands that a lot of people are not. We drive far outside of the touristy area where they cater to euros instead of dirhams, English instead of Arabic, and flushing toilets instead of holes in the ground. The three of us can’t hide. This is the first time I’ve ever longed to fit in.

Their curiosity is felt.

A donkey crosses the motorway. Goats perch high up on tree branches. Cats patrol their territory. Skinny dogs bake in the sun. Boys kick a ball to and fro. Girls collect provisions. Men drink tea at the internet cafe. Fully-covered women walk arm-in-arm. There are rusty blue doors. Brightly patterned rugs. Open fire tagines. Harsh sunlight fades reds to pinks. Shepards walkabout the fields. Flatbeds stacked with tangerines. Cloaks with pointy hoods. Disorganized movement of vehicles. We receive long looks. They all smile, each and every one.

It doesn’t take us more than 30 minutes to get pulled over by the police for speeding. One hundred fifty dirham. Slow down, they request, smiling and gladly accepting our money (about $40 US). Thirty miles outside of Marrakech, the Atlas Mountains give our journey scale. When you arrive at a destination by sailboat, often the most attractive experience are the places you can’t get to via sailboat. Inland. Desert. Mountains. Backroads. We mark out the land on our NV Chart as we travel inland, just for fun.

Two days later we have driven over the Atlas mountains, into the Sahara, and back over the Atlas mountains. Tired. Cultured. Full. Relieved to find the boat exactly as we left it, untouched and awaiting our arrival. The following day was for preparing the boat for the next port. Water, provisions, engine check, etc. Our presence seemed to be known by everyone upon our return from the desert. I couldn’t complete a single task without interruption.

We awake to an old man trying to sell us a puppy. It’s difficult to deny a puppy, but we have to send him on his way. The next man tries to sell us a fishing line wrapped around half of a flip flop, with a rock tied to the end. Luke buys it for five euro. A woman lingers beside our boat quietly, with beautiful eyes and a gracious smile. She waits until no one else is around, then cups her palms and holds them out. She wants money. I had none left. A cat comes and lays as close as it can to the edge of the cement wall. He purrs and stretches waiting for us to give him food. We do. The cat is happy and it leaves. A young man arrives and asks for clothes. Oddly enough I had a bag of clothes I was trying to get rid of. I pass it over and he thanks us. The Harbor Master arrives and tells me I must come with him. He needs all new paperwork filled out because it had been one day longer than we said we would stay. By 4 p.m., I had accomplished nothing.

I left Morocco inspired. Wide eyed. Feeling creative. Curious. Fortunate. It felt wild, colorful, and foreign. The inconveniences, vulnerability, and cultural barriers ultimately didn’t matter. Gracious locals made us feel welcomed. Kids looked at us like celebrities. There were moments of being overwhelmed, as it seemed our appearance was associated with wealth. And in comparison, we were. The simplicity of their lives was eye-opening, and their fascination with our western culture held strong. Depending on who you ask, this same experience may result in completely different explanations. As for mine, it was spectacular. A kind reminder to take other’s experiences with a grain of salt, as yours may be completely different.