Time always feels short in the places with a good vibe like Stonetown, Zanzibar. This is especially true when we are in “cruising mode” as we are now. But, in accordance with Pete an Jen’s spreadsheet, we must move on to meet the requisite timing for our travel inland, their planned departure up the red sea, and to be somewhere fun for our 15th wedding anniversary. So, we loosened the lashings holding Sonrisa to her first dock since 2019, and set sail to the Northern tip of Zanzibar.

We’d heard there was a full moon party scheduled, with fire dancers, music, and drummers. But, as luck (?) would have it, the Steel Sapphires suffered from a tangled roller furling line on their headsail. This made them late (and grumpy) as they laid their anchor down next to us. Dusk was already falling, and the full moon had risen over the Dhows passing with the pulsating rhythm of their hand-drum circle and a throng of tourists seated atop (and beneath!) platforms of questionable architectural design.

This was just enough time for us to observe the lackluster bonfire perched on shore (twice burnt away due to lack of attention), and listen to a DJ playing early 90’s hiphop between issued warnings that "the locals are smart investors.” Apparently, they pay $10.00 for a ticket to enter the full moon party, but walk out with hundreds of dollars in purses, wallets, and cell phones left unattended.

Sounds nice.

Pete and Jen were halfway through their post-trauma gin and tonic in their own cockpit, when Andrew decided he'd prefer to stay aboard to wax his mustache.

We tried to head to shore the next day. Our stated goal: to find a nice local shop for lunch. We motored over to the side of a fellow sailor’s ship to ask where best to leave Grin for the duration of our time ashore.

“Mmmmaybe, let me take you guys in? That way you can leave Grin tied up to your boat.” Apparently, outboard motors sometimes go on ‘walkabout’ if you leave your dinghy anchored on shore. “Last night we went to the full moon party. One sailor had his phone stolen, and I caught a guy's hand just as he was slipping my own phone out of my pocket,” our sailing friend explained. This is such a rare case. The world over we've traveled, there has been so little theft to worry about. It mostly happens in tourist driven hubs, and rarely to us sailors. It's almost always minor pickpocketing if it happens at all. But, that doesn't make it fun when it happens. Being the intrepid travelers we are, we didn't want to miss out on seeing this tropical white sand beach, so we take our anchorage-mate up on his offer to shuttle us ashore.

All we really wanted was to find an everyday local cafe, rather than the fancy restaurants at resorts on the beach. But, as soon as our toes came in contact with the perfect, talcumpowder-sand, a swarm of trinket salespeople buzz around us. “Support me, brother, with your purchase of this plastic, chinese-made object that you don’t really like."

We live on boats, there is only so much space for crap we want, let alone the crap we don't want. “Hapana Asante, Hapana Asante, Hapana Asante..." This means “No, thank you” in Swahili, but alas it is not a codeword strong enough to open the gate and allow us to pass through the swarm. They follow us. The more obnoxious of the group follow us all the way along the beach, smelling a bit boozy and curious if we’d like to be escorted to a bar.

“Hapana Asante."

"But you are my brother! You are my sister!"

“Hapana Asante."

“Hapana.... hapana.... hapana..." I say, even in tone, as they walk backward and repeatedly hoist a series of objects at me. I fall silent and ignore. One man with bowls falls behind and imitates me with a high pitched voice: “Hapana, hapana, hapana..." Then he kicks an aluminum can at me that had been lying in the road.

“We really need to learn the phrase, ‘f&%k off’" Pete says, and he begins googling while he walks. He finds a Swahili phrase meaning “go f&%k a dog.”

We probably shouldn't use that one.

We eventually find a restaurant in the genre of exactly what we are looking for, and our entourage gets bored with us. But, it took far, far longer than anticipated. We get the sense they receive kickbacks if they can push us into a resort bar, it's neither here nor there to them if it is out of fear, annoyance, or actual desire to patronize said resort bar. Our lunch was nice, grilled fish with vegetables and the rice was cooked perfectly. We enjoyed watermelon juice and one cold bubbly beer, then girded ourselves to walk the gauntlet one more time.

We do find a way to enjoy the Kendwa Anchorage, though. We stayed two more days, swimming around Sonrisa in the clear, crisp water, but otherwise staying aboard. At night, we'd hang Sonrisa’s oil lantern in the cockpit and sit in our beanbags for hours listening to some excellent live music by a man singing and playing a base electric guitar on shore. The volume was set just loud enough to loft Afro-Jazz selections across the anchorage for a private concert from the comfort of our sailboats.

It was nice....until one evening at sunset, we watched a pair of toursits slam their jetski head-on into another of our sailing shipmates. It was defnitely time to up anchor and find a different neighborhood.

We sailed across the channel to the mainland. Expecting a sail of about 50 miles, we left at first light and motored through a completely windless, but rainy, day to reach Tanga, Tanzania. We nestle Sonrisa into the harbor with a vibrant local swimming club and a small “yatch club" (misspelling intended, the locals pronounce this place yeee-ahhhtttt-ch with a hard “ch”, not Yawwwwttt).

“Its official!" Andrew says, “We've crossed the Indian Ocean! We've reached the African Continent!”

This does feel significant. So, we drop Grin into the water and head to the “Yatch” Club to enjoy a celebratory Konyagi and Tonic. Konyagi is the local gin, which happens to be quite nice. Very smooth, has some good herbal flavor as any Gin should, and better yet, nicely priced. We gather a circle of cruisers, some old friends and some new to enjoy the ambiance of the evening and share a few sea yarns.

"Oh, yes! I was borded by Somali pirates on my sail north through the red sea!” one sailor recounts. “While naked!" He offers the group a hilarious and somewhat poetic rendition of the story in which he singlehandedly fended off not one, but four machete toting “fishermen" with nothing but a cricket bat and no clothes at all.

It was funny, but it still made me uneasy.

“Are you sure you want to sail the red sea route?” I asked Pete and Jen. I begin to chant, “let’s sail south, let’s sail south, let’s sail south.”

Andrew and I decidedly were NOT going to sail the red sea. Somali pirates aside, Sonrisa's insurer refuses to insure us for that route, we don't have the fuel capacity to motor that trip in one go, tacking upwind through shipping lanes is unpleasant, and with Covid, the typical stopping points to refill with food and fuel aren't as reliable as they would normally be. The Steelies and the Oddgodfreys might be going our separate ways. Would this be one of our last "yatch club" sundowner session with the Steelies in attendance?

A couple days later, it was our 15th wedding anniversary, so Andrew and I get as gussied up as two sailing bums can. We hail a Bjaji (the African version of a tuk-tuk, prounounced: Be-Jaw-Jee) to take us to ”Seaview” reported by the sailing crew to be "the best restaurant in town.”

"I better stop at an ATM,” Andrew says as we rattle along the fully unlit road. “Not sure how much this restaurant will cost, but I might not have enough.” He leans forward and makes his request. The driver nods, and we stop.

Andrew pats his wallet feeling more confident now, and we carry on another few blocks to a building on the side of the road, the sea being decidedly not in view. At this unmarked building, there is nothing by way of illumination. There are no candles on the table, no overhead lights; while there are windows that look inside to a room that holds a snooker table, there are no lights on inside, either. One woman sits by herself, in the dark, at a table over looking the road. She is chewing.

The Bijaji driver stops and looks at us expectantly.

"Seaview?" Andrew asks.

The driver nods.

“Is it open?” Andrew asks. It definitely does not look open.

The driver nods.

We exit the Bjaji and stand at the foot of some steps, feeling uncertain. Andrew hands the driver his money, and he leaves. Another man appears in the dark to stand over us at the top of the stairs.

“Is this Seaview?” Andrew asks.

The man nods, as though this should be obvious.

“Are you open?”

The man nods again as if it is obvious. He waves his hand toward the tables and we shrug to follow him in. It's supposed to be the best!

We are seated and receive menus. I hold it up to my face using the light of passing cars to read my options. On the cover, it depcits a nice ocean and beach with the phrase “Taste and Forget the Rest" printed at the bottom.

I read it aloud. “This is actually really good advice,” I say to Andrew. He nods, enthusiastically.

When our server returns I tell him, “Ill take the prawn curry, please, with naan bread." Andrew chooses pizza, and we order anniversary beers to go along side. The man nods and disappears into a hallway with no lights.

Once we receive our beers, we clink them together with the traditional Swahili phrase: “Maisha Marifu!” which means “wishes for a long life!" When the food arrives, we find it to be quite nice - even if in the dark.

Then, we head back to the "yatch” club where Sonrisa presented us with a bottle of champagne she had been keeping in her fridge for just this purpose. We sip under a decidedly warmer glow of her oil lamp and muse about the way the between-anchroages can sometimes feel aimless and always with a strange mix of highs and lows.

“Yep,” Andrew says, “Life is good when you taste and forget the rest."