This is part one of a seven-day logbook kept aboard the sailing yacht Bonaca, a 38-foot sloop, on her way from Rijeka to Split. Three friends, one boat, one long, bright stretch of Croatian coast.
Ship’s Log
- Day: Day 1 of 7
- Leg: Rijeka → Cres town (island of Cres)
- Distance: approx. 24 nautical miles
- Wind & weather: NE bura 12–18 knots in the morning, easing to 6–8 knots by afternoon; clear sky, 27 °C, sea slight
Meet the Crew
Every logbook needs a list of the people who will be blamed for things, so here it is. Niko, 29, is our skipper. He has the papers, the calm voice and a red cap he refuses to wash because it has “never been through a bad storm”. Maya, 28, is our first mate, a certified diver and the only one of us who can splice a rope without looking it up. And I am Lena, 27, ship’s cook, fishing enthusiast and keeper of this log. We met years ago at a climbing gym, and somewhere between belaying each other and complaining about sore forearms we decided that one summer we would sail the Adriatic together. This is that summer.
The boat is called Bonaca, which in Croatian means a dead calm sea. Niko says the name is a polite request to the weather. Maya says it is wishful thinking. We will find out who is right.
Provisioning in Rijeka
We started the morning in Rijeka’s covered market, a wonderful maze of halls where the fish pavilion smells of the sea and the fruit stands shout with color. An elderly vendor with silver hair and quick hands talked us into far too many peaches, then tucked a handful of figs into Maya’s basket “for the road”. We bought tomatoes, peppers, crusty bread, a wedge of sheep’s cheese, olive oil, eggs, rice and enough water to float a small whale.
Insider tip number one, and it is a boring but crucial one: water first, snacks second. On a small yacht the water tanks run out faster than you expect, and on many islands shops close in the afternoon or sell water at island prices. We stowed heavy items low and in the middle of the boat, fresh produce in a ventilated net, and eggs where nobody would sit on them. We have learned that last rule the hard way on a previous trip.
Casting Off
By ten o’clock we had the engine warm, fenders in, lines singled up and three very wide smiles on deck. Rijeka slid away behind us, the city’s stacked façades and green hills turning into a postcard. The Kvarner Bay opened up in front of us, wide and blue, with the long grey-green back of Cres lying low on the horizon.
The morning wind was the tail end of a bura, the famous northeasterly of this coast. The bura is cold, dry and gusty. It pours down from the mountains behind the coast and can hit the water in sudden blasts, especially around Kvarner and under the Velebit range. When it is strong, the sea turns white in streaks and even experienced sailors stay in port. Today it was merely enthusiastic: twelve to eighteen knots from the northeast, perfect for a beam reach across the bay with one reef tucked in, just to be polite.
Here is the second insider tip of the voyage. A bura brings crystal-clear air and dramatic visibility. If the mountain tops look razor sharp and a little cloud cap sits on the ridges like a white hat, expect gusts. We check the Croatian weather service’s maritime forecast every morning and listen to the regular weather broadcasts on the VHF radio, which are given in several languages. The forecast does not care how beautiful the sky looks.
Sea Legs and Sandwiches
Halfway across, the bura got bored and wandered off. The sea calmed down, we shook out the reef, and Maya produced peach-and-cheese sandwiches that should not work but absolutely do. Niko let each of us helm for an hour, which mostly meant that he sat in the cockpit pretending to read while watching our course like a hawk. I steered us past a small fishing boat whose skipper raised his coffee cup at us. We raised our sandwiches back. Maritime diplomacy at its finest.
We swam once in the middle of the bay, the boat hove-to with sails backed, taking turns so that someone always stayed aboard. The water was deep blue, so clear we could see our own feet a long way down, and colder than it looked. Maya did a perfect dive off the bow. I did a perfect belly flop. Niko filmed both and promised to delete neither.
Arriving in Cres Town
Cres town sits in a sheltered round bay on the west side of the island, its harbor ringed by pastel houses, a Venetian-style loggia and narrow lanes that disappear uphill. We backed into a berth on the town quay, picked up the lazy line, a sunken line that runs from the quay to a heavy mooring block, and walked it forward to the bow. The harbor master’s assistant helped with the stern lines and gave us a thumbs-up that I am choosing to believe was a compliment.
Insider tip number three: Mediterranean mooring, stern-to with a lazy line, is much easier if you plan the roles before you enter the harbor. One person at the helm, one at the stern with lines ready, one at the bow with a boathook and gloves. Talk through it before you need it, not while you are drifting sideways toward a very expensive motor yacht.
A Lamb-Shaped Happy Ending
Cres is famous for its lamb. The sheep here roam rough, herb-covered pastures, and locals swear you can taste the salt and wild sage in the meat. We ordered it grilled with potatoes and a simple salad at a table right on the water, with a bottle of local white and the masts of the harbor turning gold in the evening light. We toasted to Bonaca, to the bura for behaving, and to six more days of exactly this.
Later, sitting in the cockpit with mint tea, Maya asked what we each hoped to get out of the trip. Niko said “no broken gear”. Maya said “one proper dive”. I said “the perfect fish”. We shook on it. It is now 23:10, the harbor is quiet except for halyards tapping against masts, and the skipper is already snoring in the forepeak.
Log closed. Engine hours: 2.1 · Fuel: topped up in Rijeka · Water: full · Crew morale: excellent · Tomorrow: the west coast of Cres, the cliff village of Lubenice, the Osor bridge and Mali Lošinj.
Part 1 of 7. The next logbook entry, Day 2, follows tomorrow.
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