I lie on my back in the cockpit, look into the black infinity of the universe, try to recognize the individual constellations and Odin hisses at a 20 degree angle of inclination up to eight knots towards Lampedusa. (As far as I know, the southernmost point of Europe) . A small fly shit on the map, hardly developed by Central European tourism, but that is precisely why this small island between Malta and Tunisia is so appealing.
One shooting star follows the other and in the meantime I run out of wishes.
After the wind didn't want to go the way we did, we decided to simply sail in the opposite direction instead of Sicily before we have to apply for asylum in Malta or be automatically naturalized.
As always on longer distances, we have put out our fishing rod when suddenly the line starts buzzing wildly.
However, it is not the longed-for fish, we have exactly the opposite on the hook - namely a large seagull.
The unfortunate animal got the big tuna bait so badly rammed into its wings that it kept getting injured trying to free itself.
We rescue the bird, which, totally exhausted, no longer puts up any resistance with its large beak out of the water.
Bertel tries to heal him somehow, but the wounds are so bad that we decide to put him out of his suffering.
My whole body trembles as Bertel cuts off the head of the imposing bird with a sharp knife and a quick cut.
I have tears in my eyes, as seafarers have always considered a bird to bring good luck. I feel kind of guilty and insist on fishing only where there are no stupid gulls in the future.
As for Lampedusa, we're glad we never chose this island as a holiday destination before. There are some beautiful, crystal-clear bays, but otherwise a lot of dirt, loveless architecture, car rentals and absolutely no flair.
But what the heck, we were now on the southernmost European island and tomorrow we continue, next stop: Monastir.