I head to a place where I indulge in their famous mint tea and freshly roasted chicken, for which I pay a ridiculously little. Then I go for a walk around the city, where they offer me hashish at every turn, even though I make excuses that I don’t enjoy these substances. The next morning I check out of the marina and from customs, which I almost forgot about. After inspecting the sailboat, I can set sail and before that they mention to me that they have already found a place for me in Rabat and that they are already expecting me there. While waiting for all the customs formalities, the wind got so strong that leaving the marina is a minor problem, so I sail out of the breakwater with a genoa and sharply against the wind from the bay where the marina lies. I float upstream and move very slowly. I observe Moroccan fishermen. They sail in my direction, so I join their route, as they know this sea and these currents best. When I reach the NW Cape of Africa, the northernmost point of Africa in the Atlantic Ocean, I turn the boat 90 degrees and turn left. I sail all night with all the sails and sail in the orco. The wind runs out in the morning and stays that way until the evening. Then it blows again, but from the NW. All night I observe plankton and lots of fishing boats sailing the seas without lights. These boats are full of people: pulling nets, sorting fish, throwing nets into the sea, in short, fishing, completely different than you can imagine. The bows of these boats rise high, and powerful engines hum at the stern, propelling the boat in all weather conditions. Fishermen here are just a story or a fairy tale for fishermen here. After several days at sea, on a 10 m long boat more than 20 people, regardless of the weather and the sea, they are here 24 hours a day.
I wake up in the morning with a beautiful sunrise and it should be slowly before Rabat. I sail very slowly, the wind is less, but I don’t worry, because it will soon be over my head. I can’t go to Rabat, the waves are too high and entering the river is difficult, especially if you don’t know the entrance. There are no markings anywhere and as the river flows into the sea and the sea into the river, it creates big waves on which I change my mind and turn the boat around at the last minute. I decide to move on towards Casablanca. I sway with a small wind all night and before sunset I am already in front of the entrance to the huge port of Casablanca. I wait for the huge black cargo ship, which has barely any light, and sail into the harbor behind it, completely tired and all I want is to moor the boat and rest for a few hours.
Well, this is where the real hell began. They send me from the pier to the pier, here and there, from one part of the port to another, and in the end I decide to moorto the pier where the marina used to be. There are at least 100 vacancies where moorings used to be. But someone comes and threatens me that I can’t moor the boat here, because if I do, I’ll never see it again, and so on. ….. I moor a fishing boat full of people, it stinks from all over, people wash themselves with water from the sea, into which they throw faeces at the same time. Here I saw up close how the fishermen here live. It all started to turn on me. Their boat smelled unbelievably – ten times worse than a toilet at a 40-year-old gas station. In short, an unbearable stench. While I am tied to the boat, I get incredibly tired and just sit on the bed and the customs officer knocks on my boat, unties the boat and pushes it away. He tells me to report to VHF 7. I report to the channel where they tell me to get out of this port and that I am not welcome here, that the flag I have is, according to them, Russian. It is only now clear to me why some fishermen pointed with their hand under my neck. Well, what I want is better to get out of here than to become animal food, as their threats show.