Santa Margarita's Welcome: Sun, Swim, and a Squall
Luna Stretches Her Legs: A Ferragosto Escape to Santa Margherita
I woke up in a 17th-century palace. The Palazzo Durazzo, a noble residence owned by the same family for four centuries, had been our luxurious refuge from the boatyard chaos. Over breakfast in its grand halls, we made a spontaneous plan: check out, bike to the marina, and set sail for the weekend. Freedom called.
Back at the dock, a beautiful sight greeted us: Luna was whole again. Termodinamica had finished installing all the fan coils, and, crucially, had screwed everything down. The day before, they’d pressurized the entire system with nitrogen—a high-stakes test for leaks. The system passed with flying colors. Now, with the units securely mounted, we knew the team had cleared a major hurdle. (They still have four intense days of work when we return, but for now, the pressure was off—pun intended!).
The timing was perfect. August 15th is Ferragosto, a national holiday whose roots stretch back to Emperor Augustus himself (yes, the one who named a month after himself). With Italy at a standstill, our workers had the day off. And with temperatures soaring into the 90s and no AC, the stagnant, oven-like air in the marina was unbearable. We needed the sea.
It took us less than two hours to get Luna ready. We pointed her bow toward a small, protected harbor in Santa Margherita Ligure, a town nestled just around the corner from the famous Portofino. Based on Navily reviews (think Yelp for anchorages), it seemed like the perfect spot for our first escape. The coastline unfolded like a dream: towering cliffs plunging into water of the deepest sapphire blue. There is something uniquely magical about this stretch of the Italian Riviera.
We were giddy. This was our first time anchoring Luna, and we fell into our well-practiced rhythm—a dance of silent communication and shared purpose. The anchor dropped perfectly on the first try and held fast. Success! But before we could relax, we had a mission: to reclaim our home. We reassembled our owner’s cabin, reattached the ceiling panels, dusted away every speck of construction debris, and hid all the tools. Finally, Luna felt like ours again. She was no longer a project site; she was our sanctuary.
The difference was instantaneous. At anchor, a blissful breeze flowed through the boat—something impossible in the stifling marina. When the heat peaked, we simply dove into the refreshing Mediterranean. That night, we slept under the stars in our mosquito-net cocoon, lulled to sleep by the sound of water and the gentle rock of the waves.
This trip was also a chance to finally play with our new toys. Our long-awaited Seabobs had arrived! (Months of tariff delays were solved by shipping them to Europe). Too heavy to carry far and unfit for marina water, this was their moment to shine. We also properly christened Comet, our inflatable tender. Her maiden voyage had been a flop (we forgot the safety key and had to row!), but now, with her electric motor purring on solar power, she zipped us to shore with effortless ease.
Over the next few days, Comet became our trusty runabout, ferrying us into Santa Margherita. The town was a revelation—light years better than postcard-perfect Portofino, in our opinion. It had all the charm but with more soul: fantastic restaurants, boutique shops, and a lively, authentic energy. The best view, however, was from the town looking back at Luna, sitting proudly in the harbor as the most beautiful boat in sight.
During the evenings, we’d do lazy laps around her, swimming in her shadow. We’d just look at her, then at each other, in utter disbelief. She’s actually ours. And out here on the water, with the breeze in our hair and the whole Mediterranean ahead of us, every moment of the grind was worth it. We are thriving.
The Squall
That Saturday, anchored in Santa Margarita, we experienced our first squall. The forecast had promised a thunderstorm, so we were prepared for weather—but not for this.
As it was our first time at anchor with Luna, we had no idea how she would handle the 30-knot gusts. Every sailor’s worst fear is dragging anchor, and it’s deceptively difficult to detect. With 120 feet of chain out (from a total of 260), our swing radius was enormous; distinguishing a normal drift from a dangerous drag is nearly impossible. Our Raymarine unit has an anchor-drag alarm, but it only works if set immediately after anchoring. Since we were already moving in the building wind, it was almost pointless, but we set it anyway.
We knew the storm was closing in by the shift in the wind. Luna swung around to face the approaching fury. In the distance, a dark curtain of rain blotted out the mountains. Whitecaps began to stitch patterns across the water as the wind picked up, and a low, racing mist formed where the rain hammered the surface. The smaller powerboats were the first to flee, throttling full-tilt back to the marina for shelter.
The rain reached us first—soft, heavy drops tattooing the water in a beautiful, complex mosaic. Then the wind hit. I was on the stern, recording a video, when the gust blew so hard it skimmed the rain right off the water’s surface and hurled it straight at us. I retreated behind the glass to escape the stinging spray.
Every boat in the anchorage was now huddled into the wind, riding the steep chops like a flock of seabirds. It reminded me of a lesson from flying seaplanes in Alaska: birds always face into the wind, just like sailboats. With no towers for miles, a few birds could tell you everything about the wind’s direction.
Around us, the packed anchorage was descending into chaos. We watched as several smaller boats began to drag, their anchors failing to hold. One skidded perilously close to a neighbor before its skipper managed to restart his engine. Another was blown backwards directly into the swimming area boundary, its hull becoming entangled in the ropes and buoys until an emergency rescue boat had to brave the squall to help them. Most bizarrely, a boat trying to reposition itself hauled up its anchor only to find it hopelessly tangled with an old, abandoned one, leaving them stuck fast in the raging wind. It was a fascinating, sobering spectacle of how quickly things can go wrong.
Then our own anchor alarm screamed. We might be dragging. To be safe, Hugh and I started the engines and throttled gently forward to relieve the strain on the anchor chain, holding us steady in place. And can you believe it? After weeks of relentless heat, we actually got cold. The wet wind stripped the warmth from our bodies, forcing us to pull on our new matching white Helly Hansen jackets. We looked like pros—or at least, we felt like it. The squall died as suddenly as it arrived. We re-anchored to secure a better position, then just looked at each other: a high-five, a burst of laughter, a shared what was that? We’d handled it. Together, we’re a great team.
Santa Margarita was defined by a series of perfect firsts:
Maiden Voyage: Our first real anchoring experience with Luna.
Dinghy Freedom: Our first thrilling dinghy ride on our new tender, Comet, with the motor finally purring.
Starlight: Our first night sleeping under the stars on the deck.
Blended Bliss: Our first fresh smoothie from our new blender.
Underwater Flight: Our first time exploring the anchorage on our Seabobs.
The Ultimate Dip: Our first, exhilarating skinny dip in the bay.
Al Fresco Wash: Our first shower outside, surrounded by nothing but sea and sky.
Baptism by Wind: Our first squall—faced and conquered
Fixed it: Salt water pump leak!
New G&T: Our first taste of Portofino Gin.
Next stop - Back to Genoa to finish our AC
