Kim rounded Cape Spartel, the north westerly point of Africa on the morning of 31st July, and sailed out into the broad blue waters of the Atlantic. Our destination, Rabat, was only about 120 miles distant, not much of a trip, but one with a major complication – timing.
Although Rabat is the capital of Morocco, it is not much of a port, and because of its difficult entrance, has no commercial shipping. Rabat and its twin city, Salé, are built at the mouth of the Bouregreg river, which has a shallow entrance facing west, directly into the Atlantic swell.
The bar is impassable if the height of the swell is more than two metres – a frequent occurrence – and/or if the tide is low. It is best to arrive just before high water, when the tide is flooding into the river, in the same direction as the swell. If you are late, and arrive after high water, the ebbing tidal stream can cause the swells to pile up on the bar and sometimes to break.
If you miss the tide, or the swells are high, you must not try and enter, however close and tempting the sight of the city may be, but must haul off, and either wait for the next daylight tide, or go somewhere else, though the Atlantic coast of Morocco is rather inhospitable, with few all weather ports.
This meant that we had to arrive at Rabat at 1200 on the following day, or spend another night at sea. One the face of it, not difficult, an average of 4 knots or so. However, with the light wind, this meant motorsailing, something we find rather tiring. To this was added the presence of large numbers of fishing boats, none of which were using AIS, but which luckily showed up well on our newly installed radar – thank you eBay! As the day broke, we were off Rabat, but an unexpected hazard emerged, hundreds of fishing markers through which we had to thread before we arrived at just about the right time.
In company with a Dutch yacht, we waited half a mile or so from the entrance, our lifting keel half way up, giving us a draft of about 2 metres. The view was magnificent with the formidable Kasbah of the Oudayas looming over the harbour entrance, but the swell, probably 1 – 1.5 metres, was piling up, making things rather uncomfortable. A pilot service provided by the marina had been mentioned in various guides we had seen, and we called the marina on Channel 9 to request a pilot. Eventually, a RIB emerged from the harbour and told us to wait where we were, and then went back into the river. After half an hour or so, the Dutch yacht which had visited before made its own way past the breakwaters, and we, concerned about missing the tide, followed them. I did not see any less than 6 metres depth on the way in, and there were no breaking waves. We waited, rather uncomfortably in the lumpy waves at the river entrance, under the looming walls of the Kasbah, seemingly surrounded by holidaymakers and swimmers on the adjacent beaches.
Eventually, with everybody either seasick or nearly seasick, the marina told us via VHF to proceed up the river. This was an unforgettable experience, to go so swiftly from the trackless Atlantic into the centre of this historic city, without the usual lead in of commercial docks or suburbs. The Kasbah and its grim walls and the beaches with surfers gave way to the narrow river, with small fishing boats moored in the stream and ferries, crowded with passengers and propelled, as they must have been from time immemorial, by a man standing over his oars. And on shore, promenades crowded with people strolling, the women dressed in modest but smart clothes. Behind the promenade a modern bustling city, busy roads, a huge bridge carrying a tram line over the river, and overlooking it all, the enormous 12th century Hassan tower.
We made fast to the customs pontoon, just outside the marina on the right bank of the river. I was very tired after the motorsailing and the tension of navigating the entrance (worse in anticipation than in practice), but managed to keep alert long enough to complete the necessary formalities and get the boat into her marina berth.
We spent two weeks in Rabat. As I write this, a month later, that time seems like a vivid dream - walking amongst holidaying Moroccan crowds with colourfully dressed women, wandering through the narrow streets of Salé Medina looking for Camping Gaz bottles, drinking mint tea and being transported across the river in a ferry propelled by oars.
Rabat, as I said earlier, is the capital of Morocco. It has, to understate things, a complex history. The Bouregreg river, which rises in the Atlas mountains hundreds of miles away, runs through the city, with salt marshes, which are sadly being reduced by modern development, lining its banks. On the right bank is Salé, famously home to what the English used to call the “Sally Rovers”, fearsome corsairs who roamed as far as Iceland on slaving expeditions, had a base on Lundy Island, and who once carried off the entire population of Baltimore in Ireland.
The city was founded, or at least expanded, by Moriscos, Moors who had been expelled from Spain during and after the Reconquista.
On the left bank of the Bouregreg is Rabat, guarded by the huge Kasbah. A slightly tidier medina, and the accoutrements of a capital city – heavy traffic, a busy railway station, government ministry buildings, company headquarters and embassies, all linked by a tram line. The people in Rabat, or at least the ones we met, were invariably friendly and often helpful, probably because there are few foreign tourists, in marked contrast to our experience of Marrakesh which we visited by train.
The weather in Rabat, moderated by the cold Canary Current just offshore, is excellent, at least for tourists, sunny, but not hot. We visited the magnificent Chellah archaeological site, where foursquare Roman ruins are overlaid with Islamic remains of incredible subtlety, surrounded by cool gardens with running streams. We went to a café there, astonished not only by the magnificent view over the river valley, but also by the storks nesting in the trees a few feet away.
The ambiance of the marina might not be to everybody’s taste, but nobody could accuse it of being too quiet. The cafés lining the quay at the end of our pontoon often had live music, music the like of which we had not heard before, and stayed open late. The roads were busy with strolling crowds and the restaurants, which are very cheap, full of customers. There are no chandleries as far as I know, but there is a DIY store and a supermarket close to the marina
There were a few visiting yachts in the marina. The one which arrived after we’d been there for a week or so had had a nasty fright with a breaker in the entrance. We noticed a small boat with an American registration on our pontoon, and when we met the owner, he turned out to be Sam Holmes, a well known YouTube personality.
Leaving involved going alongside the Police pontoon in the marina entrance. This doubles as the fuel berth, but as the fuel pump was not working, we were unable to top off the tank. As formalities were slightly protracted, we were only just about in time for the tide at the bar, which was not quite so benign on this occasion, and Kadash was lifted by a wave which I thought was about to break, but didn’t. At Rabat, once you are out, you’re out, no turning back, unless you are prepared to take a chance on favourable conditions at the next daylight high tide, and there are no yacht friendly harbours in Morocco before Agadir, hundreds of miles south.
Lanzarote it was then, and after threading our way through the fishing buoys for a couple of hours we set out for on boisterous but fast four day passage – triple reefed main or jib alone - bringing us to Puerto Calero, a pleasant enough marina, where we stayed for a couple of weeks before flying home.
If you ever get the chance, go to Rabat, but be careful of the entrance!
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