Okay, so it’s not like winning the Sydney Hobart Race, but winning the first race of the 2007 Aegean Yacht Rally in our chartered Jeanneau 49DS, Volante, is a brief moment of glory for us ageing playboy yachties: the Goulds, the Saalfelds and the Brooks’. Brief, because it’s also a huge mistake. Our handicap is savaged after that first result and now the other skippers are gunning for us. Any fool knows you should only win the last race!

We are on yet another Mediterranean cruise, this time starting in Turkey at Kusadasi, race/cruising through the Greek Dodecanese Islands and back to the Turkish coast with a fleet of 10 charter yachts, accompanied by a Turkish Gulet carrying the Mariner Boating rally management team. Many of those present are sailing friends, so you know the parties are going to be brutal even if the racing is supposed to be friendly. After the long journey from Sydney via Istanbul a night in the excellent Kismet Hotel revives us. We have almost two whole days in the place which includes a visit to the nearby ancient Greco-Roman city of Ephesus and a rally group dinner party at the hotel.

Some rally people – clearly much smarter than us – arrived several days earlier and toured down the coast from Istanbul, visiting Gallipoli amongst other places. Two of our own crew, John and Nina Saalfeld, flew to Athens a week earlier so are de-jetlagged, fluent in Greek, Turkish and bazaar, and even know how to operate their digital camera, seasoned tourists both.

The first rally leg is a cruise from Kusadasi to the port of Pythagorion on the island of Samos, just off the Turkish Coast, where the genial Christos, Minister for everything, clears us through Greek customs and immigration. Yes, this was the home town of the philosopher/mathematician, Pythagoras, but he left here early in his life to escape its tyrannical ruler. There is no sign of this tyranny when we reverse Volante into the town quay, just a string of tavernas conveniently located right across the road. Needless to say, the ensuing crew party is a great success.

We spend a full day on Samos, enjoying beautiful late spring weather before racing south to Arkoi in rain and wind on the nose (southerly) all the way. Where is the famous Meltemi (northerly) we ask? What happened to that benign Mediterranean weather? Still, this is the only race we win on handicap, probably because in the cold and the rain no one is anxious to relieve Gouldy on the helm.

Arkoi is, in contrast to Samos, rugged, rustic and lacks any vegetation other than the wild thyme and sage which the goats eat and which produces such great tasting yoghurt. There are far more goats than people, no water, no power, but like the smallest outback Australian town and its pub, it does have a taverna. The weather fines up and we enjoy the third cruise party and later a nightcap, several I suspect, on John Messenger’s luxurious Hanse 53.

We’re getting the hang of this now; avoid the Ouzo and Raki – both of which can be lethal – and stick to the wine. However, most of these Greek Islands have their own local wine labels which are not necessarily up to Grange standard – a touch of understatement here – but, thankfully, Trevor Joyce has a list of the good ones. The food is all basic Greek fare: salads, olives, kebabs, spit-roasted lamb, grilled fish and etc. We eat ashore almost every night and breakfast aboard on local yoghurt, honey, fetta cheese and marvellous breads. It’s going to be a struggle, but we are absolutely determined not to lose weight on this holiday.

The next day we cruise to Patmos, probably the most striking of the Dodecanese Islands we visited. This is the spiritual home of the Greek Orthodox Church and from a high ridge the 11th century monastery of St. John dominates the town from behind sheer walls. Of course St John never saw it; he lived in a low rent cave further down the hill where he allegedly wrote the Apocalypse – Book of Revelation – when he was over 100 years old, didn’t own a word processor, and his alleged assistant wasn’t even born yet. Hmmmm!!

It’s a healthy climb up to this edifice. Naturally, Gouldy and Pru don’t hesitate and launch straight up the hill path like a pair of mountain goats; nor do Kaye and I hesitate – we share a taxi with the Saalfelds. The monastery contains priceless religious icons and treasures gathered over the centuries, and many visitors of serious religious intent. As a crude yachtie/tourist, I feel a little daunted by this display of religious fervour and escape to lunch at a cafe in the ancient town perched on the hilltop, enjoying spectacular views out over Skála harbour and the neighbouring islands which alone are worth the cab fare. Cocktails on board that evening, and we end the day in a taverna where the food and local wines are excellent. But we don’t enjoy the great spit-roasted lamb because the taverna is so crowded with rally crews there’s none left. However, the pork is succulent which is just as well because I can feel my cholesterol falling to a dangerously low level.

The wind does not cooperate for the next leg which is supposed to be a race. We motor-sail instead down the scenic east coast of Kalimnos, ending the day in a spectacular narrow fiord. Tied up to the ancient stone quay at Vathi, it’s not hard to visualise Greek, Roman, or Turkish galleys – depending on the era – rowing into the fiord for a well protected overnight stop. It’s a good overnight stop for us, too. At Poppy’s Taverna a bouzouki band plays and the food and wine flows endlessly. Everyone gets into a dancing mood led by Mama Sylvie who teaches us how to dance Greek style, although few can remember the steps when tested at later events. An amazing woman, Mama Sylvie spent all day preparing the dinner, served it to a full house, then danced until 3 a.m.

The next day we cruise to Psérimos, reaching off a 15-20K westerly. This is when we should be racing, but Trevor is out of phase and has to suffer snide radio comments about his race management. We charge down the channel between Nisos (Island) Psérimos and Nisos Kos, home of the Kos lettuce according to Kaye Brooks the culinary encyclopaedia. Unable to get into tiny and crowded Psérimos harbour, we spend the night in Ormos Bay on the east side of Nisos Psérimos. Well protected from the strong westerly, it’s completely deserted, no tavernas, no houses of any kind, nothing but goats tonkling their cow, sorry, goat bells on the hillsides as they forage for the ever present wild thyme and sage. Oh, and Gouldy and Pru climbing the hills beside them, as usual.

That was it for the Dodecanese Island Group. We now race back to the Turkish coast – well we do until the wind dies – and the regional centre of Bodrum with its 700 berth marina complete with water, power, showers, laundry facilities – now badly needed – and a swanky yacht club owned by the Maserati Company, no less. In town there is a famous ‘Haman’ (Turkish bath), and a bazaar: “Genuine fake watches for your genuine fake friends,” is one wag’s sales pitch. Also numerous restaurants and 200, they say, boom-boom bars. More educationally, the home, in 484bc, of Herodotus – the father of written history – and the spectacular St. Peter’s Castle, built by the Knights of St. John after they were ejected from Jerusalem, extended by the Ottomans and still in excellent condition.

Bodrum is the eastern Mediterranean’s main base for tourists and charter boats, both the dry charter kind like ours, and big, handsome, crewed Gulets. The latter range from basic back-packer day boats to luxury cruisers with all the facilities, some 40 metres or more LOA, and all boasting acres of varnish. There are dozens of these crammed into the harbour awaiting the start of the day-tripper and European holiday season, still a week or two away fortunately for us.

There are some surprisingly good Turkish wines here and we manage the transition from Greek Island to Turkish cuisine, which is not such a big leap: a similar treatment of lamb and fish, but more vegetable varieties here, chilli peppers and greater use of Asian spices such as cardamom, cumin and cinnamon. There is also a spiced, rice pudding for which I develop a taste – it’s a staple dessert on most restaurant menus.

As we move east in Turkish waters, the vegetation changes from the arid rockiness of the Dodecanese to forested hillsides almost European in appearance, except there is little in the way of population. This is the south west corner of Anatolia, indented with fiords and spiked with steep-sided peninsulas. The sea here is dead flat and so is the wind. Finally, we get a race started in approximately plenty of wind – on the nose again – from the eastern tip of Kos to ancient Knidos on the western tip of the Datça Peninsula. So much wind, in fact, the mainsheet traveller car spits the dummy and separates permanently from the track, which handicaps us even more than our blood/alcohol levels for two races until it is replaced.

 We stop for lunch at Knidos in a small bay surrounded by acres of archaeological “digs” from Greco-Roman times. It’s blowing the milk out of my coffee here, but in the afternoon the wind dies and the second race to Palamut is abandoned with Volante clearly in the lead in spite of the broken traveller. What HAVE we done to offend those ancient Gods?

We continue in fine weather to the picturesque fishing port of Datça where, on arrival, we are entertained by a troupe of school boys, in elaborately embroidered national dress. With very serious looks on their faces, they dance a traditional Turkish dance for us which seems to be done in slow motion. The serious looks soon vanish after they invite us to join in and they see the extent of our dancing skills.This is the Turkish province so wonderfully described in the novel Birds Without Wings, a fictionalised history of Turkey from about 1880 to 1930 by Louis de Bernieres. I read this book as a precursor to the holiday and it features a chapter or two about Gallipoli from the Turkish viewpoint. Well worth the read even if you’re not going sailing in Turkey.

That afternoon we cruise alone to a deserted bay on the western tip of the Datça Peninsula where the Goulds get mixed up with the goats again – it’s a massive job keeping them apart. There is nothing at all here except one taverna, but it’s a good one. A superb selection of Turkish food and good wines puts us all in a party mood. There’s this old guy eating alone over in one corner, hat pulled down, grim face, looking like a serious member of Corleone family. I ask the manager about him and get taken over to be introduced. He’s the owner of the business, still grimfaced until the manager – his son – tells him I’m from Australia. His face lights up in a big smile and he says “Gallipoli”. Through his son he tells me his father was at Gallipoli and when I tell him mine was too, it was like I’d found a friend for life. Clearly, Gallipoli holds a similar place in Turkish legend to our own, as I had already discovered in Birds Without Wings.

Next day we race to Bozuk Bükü, an ancient port dating back to 400bc and situated in a spectacular fiord, the entrance dominated by a very ancient citadel. Tied to a rickety jetty, we are besieged by several attractive Turkish girls in big dinghies – which they handle with great skill – filled with wonderfully embroidered fabrics, sarongs, slippers, and other harem necessities. They make a killing as the ladies of our fleet have been denied retail therapy for so long – 48 hours at least – they lose all restraint and buy everything in sight.

Now we are on the last lap, racing east along the south coast of Turkey with Rhodes in view on the horizon to starboard. We have a close race to a small bay at Çiftlik, well concealed by an island in the bay opening and not easy to spot from seaward. Çiftlik itself is a pretty place and looks like a lively resort town, but we buy provisions and move on for a quiet night in another deserted anchorage. Are we beginning to weaken, you ask? Here Gouldy cooks us pasta and we finish off our stock of Angora. No, not a goat, it’s our favourite Turkish wine.

The final race is a good one around the buoys in Marmaris Harbour in light winds. There is one last fantastic “Sultan” costume party – so that’s why the girls were buying all that harem gear – in the marina restaurant, complete with Turkish band and belly dancer. Here, the girls get to wear their very fetching costumes, although their belly dancing needs more practice, Fiona Telford sings beautifully for the rally crowd, and Don Telford is crowned regatta winner.

For being such great company, many thanks to the skippers and crews of Altea – Bob Fraser; Ankaa – Don Telford; Casi – Ron Tranter; Magellan – Graham Swan; Pamina Blue – George Snow; Steve Ann – John Messenger; Viktoria – James Ley; Volarie – Alan Quick; Yomaz – Peter Cox; and of course our own Volante crew. Thanks also to the Mariner Boating Team – Maggie and Trevor (a tidal rock is NOT an island) Joyce for, yet again, staging a great yachting rally; and to Methin, the Offshore Boating engineer, for his tireless efforts. Reluctantly, we hand over Volante, climb on the bus for the trip to the airport and fly back to Istanbul where we spend 3 days exploring that fascinating city. There is so much to see, the sense of history is awe-inspiring, the Bosporus spectacular.

Now, men, a word of warning! Ladies, do not read any further – this is secret men’s business. Men, listen closely, in Istanbul you spend hours wandering around sumptuous palaces and museums full of wonderful Turkish carpets and jewellery, sights which send the average woman into a state approaching Nirvana.

Only THEN do they take you to the Grand Bazaar which is, need I say it, overflowing with the aforementioned carpets and jewellery all at bargain prices, naturally.

Men, do not fall for this! Here you will be worked over by experts with two thousand years practice at separating unwary husbands from their money in collusion with wives who are, by now, in total shopping hysteria. Did I mention the silk harem pants and leather coats trimmed with Astrakhan? There is probably no need to tell you what happens next: your holiday budget ends up looking like the Australian national debt.