Puerto de Sóller to Sa Foradada and back again

Easy to climb into the imagination of the many who came before when the land erupts poetically and the sea whispers and bangs. Caves stealthily cut back from initial view and faces carved of stone seem simply to be frozen tales where the gods were put to sleep. Patterns of climbing green grazing grounds are etched and brushed over the landscape, lorded over by peaks clouded in mist.  And that is just the sail.

The stretch between Sa Dragonera and Puerto de Soller contains so much to draw out the mind.  Practically, how did they build THAT, THERE, and WHEN?!  Fantastically, thoughts move along the storied history of cultures that traveled along the same water for so many years.  And I am sure at some point, Justin and I will be able to convince the kids to put down their books and take a look.

Puerto de Soller captured us for several days.  We managed to catch an evening of beach bonfires and coordinated Mallorcan dancing in the square during the celebration of Sant Joan.  With Madame Geneva anchored close to shore, we dinghied into the beach and watched as the old and young, rich and poor, tattooed and pearled raised opposing arms and came together and apart.  So tantalizing was their dance, with only the final dance showing any signs of touch, that the relief came when switching partners.

We decided to pop out for a couple of days to Sa Foradada, a bay nearby that interested Justin because of the eye in the rock.  The large cliff lifted high and sharply, penetrated by a single hole that from the bay offered a keen blue eye looking back at you.  The water was so clear that when I dropped the anchor in seventy feet, I saw it hit the sand.  We ended up moving to a fifty-five foot anchorage when a day boat left.  Kayaks out, the kids took to the rocky and steep shore.

Below Madame Geneva was weed and sand, but when we took Clover, our dinghy, about, the vast but clear depth showed large boulders.  Purple jellyfish were everywhere.  When the kids expressed concern of an attack, Justin simply said, “It’s a jelly fish.  It’s basically a plant.”  And then later, “Just stay in front of it.  Don’t get behind it.”

I kayaked out along the shore.  The bay curved like an excited backwards C, tight at the top then enthusiastically elongated at the end.  Toward the top was the Blue Eye of the cliff.  In the belly of the C, where Madame Geneva was, lapping waves drawn to the jutting rocks seem to be captured, swept into a mysterious hole with low, loud thwump. A sound made only by occupying the void.

As dusk slowly settled, the kids and I were up in the cockpit.  Beds were made, screens were put up.  The kids would camp outside on the boat tonight.  The only sound was the echoing shout of one of our kids.  Occasionally a boat would go past the bay along the coast and cause a delayed soft swell rolling Madame Geneva, and again those waves would gently slap the rocks.  From nowhere, a long cresting wave perpendicular to the shore appeared followed by large swell to Madame Geneva’s beam.  “Justin, Justin!” I yelled.  He came up from below, not seeing the crest but seeing the bizarre waves coming at us.  The kids were freaked.  I was freaked.  Something created that wave.  Something big.  Justin blew it off, telling the kids that it was just the wake of a boat.  Nite nite.

Later, when it was just Justin and I, he said, “What was that???!”

Stay tuned and much love.  Nite nite.

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