Sardonic George’s Sea Chronicles: Episode 7 – The Bora Awakens
- Sardonic George
- Aug 5
- 3 min read
When you're deep into your summer holiday, darling, it's best to switch over to COMPASS TIME. And there’s no better way to calibrate that internal gyroscope than by yachting through my favorite nautical playground — Croatia.
The seas? Calm (most of the time). The fish? Delish. The drinks? Always chilled to my exacting specifications.
Initially, my humans entertained the quaint idea of hiring a captain. Naturally, I objected — firmly. I volunteered my own impeccable services, which they, with only mild hesitation, accepted.
Thus, I took the helm — metaphorically and quite literally — and chartered us a Leopard 40 catamaran. Club Class, of course. Seven days. Six islands. And reservations at the poshest eateries in the Adriatic. (Yes, I know a guy. Don’t be gauche.)
Day One:Perfection.
We anchored in a sweet little cove on the south side of Šolta Island. Dinner was exquisite, and Martin — a charming Serb — regaled us with tales of leaving his homeland for greener Croatian pastures. A touching moment of humanity.
Day Two:Also flawless... right up until it went completely, epically sideways.
After expertly piloting us to Vis Island, I dropped anchor in the serene Rukavac Cove. Tree-covered hills. Tranquil water. An air of understated elegance. We suited up for dinner and tendered to the Diamond Beach Lounge — think driftwood chic with candlelight drama.
Then, just as I was recounting a fish tale from my Fijian sailing days, an uninvited guest arrived.
A BORA WINDSTORM.
And by “storm,” I don’t mean a gentle breeze with some waves for atmosphere. I mean a sudden, violent, Adriatic banshee with all the subtlety of a freight train.
Yes, I checked the weather app. Yes, I read the charts. But this is Croatia in the summer. Expect the unexpected. And this was very unexpected.
Plates shattered. Chairs flew. Children cried. Guests were herded into the bar or crammed into the kitchen. It wasn’t chaos, exactly — more like the universe issuing a gentle reminder:
I was not in charge. Nature was.
My iPhone weather app lit up like a Christmas tree in DEFCON mode. Visibility? Gone.
And then came the moment:
I couldn’t see the boat. Or any boat.Ten yachts vanished from view.
As soon as the rain let up, I hustled my humans back to the tender — already ankle-deep in water. My fur? Drenched. Not my best look.
I fired up the engine and raced toward the mooring field, squinting into the dark like a fuzzy James Bond.
But — no boat.
You know that feeling when you walk out to a parking lot and think, “Wait… where did I park?”Yeah. You do.Not me. I have a car service.
But imagine that, minus your beeping key fob — and instead of a car, it’s a 40-foot, 8.5-ton floating luxury villa, in a storm, in the Adriatic Sea.
Finally, I spotted her.
Across the bay.
Moving.
Drifting toward the rocks, mooring ball still attached — because the entire mooring apparatus (including the concrete block) had been dragged across the sea floor like a lazy sea monster.
Panic? Not my brand.
Quick thinking? Always stocked.
I boarded, got us under control, and confirmed: yes, still attached to the mooring... which had given up on life and gone wandering.
Waves pounded. Rain lashed. My humans looked appropriately alarmed.
Two local sea cowboys — the kind of men who drink rakija for breakfast and arm-wrestle Poseidon — roared out in a skiff to assist.
There I was, at the helm, guiding our catamaran between yachts now swinging like unhinged pendulums.
Was it terrifying? For many, I imagine.
Was I a badass? No need to imagine. I was.
Once re-secured, and hearts began beating at non-lethal speeds, I shared a rakija with the cowboys. The only loss? A deck beanbag. Not mine, mind you — one of theirs.
We continue our journey later this morning, heading toward the Pakleni Islands once the system clears. I’m watching the weather like a hawk in a captain’s hat.
Until next time, my sea-salted sophisticates — Fair winds.
— George
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