Sailing Anscombe: Croatia Split & Hvar
August 6, 2022 - August 13, 2022
Trogir - Čiovo - Brač - Hvar - Solta - Drvenik Veli - Trogir
August 6, 2022 - August 13, 2022
Trogir - Čiovo - Brač - Hvar - Solta - Drvenik Veli - Trogir
John Dorry - what kind of fish is it? It's white fish!
Trogir, Marina Baotic — a peaceful Saturday evening if you ignore the quiet hum of crews already sharpening their elbows for tomorrow’s departure. Dinner was at Alka, where the waiter appeared to have attended the School of Extremely Confident Minimalism.
“What kind of fish is it?”
“It’s a white fish.”
“Which wine would you recommend?”
“This one.”
“Why?”
“It’s good.”
He didn’t blink, didn’t elaborate, and frankly could have sold us an anchor chain in a bowl and we’d have thanked him for it. Somewhere out there, there’s a Balkan leadership summit that could use his skills.
We walked back along the marina with that peculiar sense of anticipation you only get before a voyage — the smell of diesel, the clink of halyards, the quiet suspicion that you’ve forgotten something important but will only remember it halfway to Brač.
Bobovišće, Brač — a quiet lagoon with a handful of boats tucked neatly against the shore, each tied to something solid and unmovable, like a tree. We were about to join them, though “neatly” was never really in the cards.
Our first Mediterranean mooring attempt began with an official mooring guy zipping over in his dinghy, ready to guide us in. What he probably expected: a competent crew smoothly reversing into position. What he got: full-deck choreography somewhere between “evacuation drill” and “bad improv.”
We backed down toward the tree, trying to grab the mooring line while also obeying shouted instructions that Mike couldn’t hear over the engine. People dashed fore and aft, pointing at nothing in particular. There was no anchor to drop, but somehow we behaved as if there were three anchors, all tangled, and possibly on fire. The mooring line was eventually tied, though I’m not convinced anyone could explain exactly how.
With the boat secure, we decided to head into the village for dinner — except the dinghy, clearly still processing what it had just witnessed, refused to start.
Mike’s solution was… resourceful. He sat in the dinghy with Lena, picked up the lone oar, and began rowing across the five meters of water. In theory, quick and practical. In reality, the dinghy refused to turn, leaving them drifting sideways like a maritime parade float with no music. The five meters to shore felt like a crossing to Italy. Anyone watching might have assumed we were stress-testing the concept of forward motion.
The problem wasn’t speed — it was direction. The dinghy resisted turning, sliding sideways like it was late for another appointment. Each stroke seemed to produce more rotation than progress.
From shore, it probably looked like an abstract performance piece titled Two People, One Oar, Nowhere to Be. From the boat, it looked like it might take all night. Eventually, and without any clear moment of victory, they landed on the other side, where the rest of us pretended this was the plan all along.
Dinner was worth the odyssey: a stroll past stone houses, a tiny market where the fruit seemed barely detached from its tree, and a restaurant with a soccer match flickering in the corner. The walk back was calm, the dinghy still stubborn, and the boat exactly where we’d left it — miraculously tied to that tree.
The day began with an unplanned but entirely necessary pit stop in Milna to fix the dinghy, which had been sulking since Bobovišće. The marina was tight, the repair quick, and the reward immediate: an amazing local lunch that came with beer for some, and a dash for ice cream for others. It was the kind of midday pause that almost makes you forget you’re supposed to be going somewhere.
From there we aimed for Luka Tiha, Hvar — one of those postcard-perfect bays where the water is so clear you can see the anchor you forgot to drop. We didn’t anchor here either — the game today was catching a mooring buoy. In theory, a simple reach-and-loop maneuver. In practice, it was like threading a needle from the deck of a moving trampoline.
The boat came in slow and steady, the buoy line rose within reach, and the loop was… missed. There was a breathless second where time stopped, then a leg — an actual leg — appeared over the rail, stretching down to snag the rope. It worked, which is more than I can say for our dignity.
Maxi was in her element, tying knots like she was auditioning for a speed-climbing contest. Once secure, we scattered into the water, the dinghy, and various states of smug relaxation. Eventually someone proposed a dinner run to the nearby restaurant — a short trip by dinghy, which went perfectly until the last shuttle of the night ran out of fuel halfway back.
What followed was less “rescue” and more “floating committee meeting” until we limped back to the boat. In the bushes behind the restaurant earlier, there had been some strange rustling — enough to convince a few of us that Hvar’s nightlife was not limited to humans. The kids took the water taxi into the city the next morning, presumably to recover somewhere with less buoy-based drama.
The morning departure from Luka Tiha was smooth enough to make us briefly believe we were getting the hang of this. Destination: Marina Palmižana, on the Pakleni Islands — close enough to Hvar for a quick hop into the city, but far enough to pretend we weren’t headed straight into boat-party central.
En route, we made a leisurely lunch stop at Uvala Taršće, dropping anchor in water so clear it looked like we were floating on glass. That’s when it happened: the snack boat appeared. Some said it was coincidence. Others swore we had summoned it with our mind. Regardless, the small vessel drifted over, loaded with fresh fruit, juices, and snacks. And there it was — the long-awaited watermelon, gleaming in the sun like it had been pre-ordered by fate.
At Palmižana, the radio call-in to the marina was handled without a single miscommunication, a feat notable enough to deserve its own log entry. We slid into our berth next to Vitaliy from Ukraine, whose boat looked effortlessly tidy, like he’d just stepped out of a yachting catalog.
Palmižana itself was a mix of palm-lined paths, the hum of generators, and the distant thump of music from boats whose owners apparently thought of volume as a display of seamanship. But the real luxury here wasn’t the setting — it was the showers. Long, hot, glorious showers, with actual shampoo. No bucket, no rinse from a hose, no “make it quick before the tank runs dry.” We emerged clean enough to be mistaken for new arrivals.
That evening, we took the water taxi to Hvar for dinner, winding through narrow stone streets, eating well, and ending the night with a climb to the castle for sweeping views over the harbor. On the way back, the hum of the party boats faded into the sound of the water taxi’s engine, and the watermelon sat quietly in the galley — patient, like it knew tomorrow would need it.
From Palmižana, we aimed for Lučice Bay on Brač — a sheltered spot where boats tie stern-to-shore, often to the nearest tree. It’s mooring, but with landscaping. The owners of the bay’s lone restaurant doubled as mooring guides, zipping out to greet arrivals and pointing out which tree belonged to whom. We got a good one — sturdy, shady, and unlikely to wander off.
Once secured, we were welcomed ashore for lunch and introduced to the house specialty: rosemary tea. Served hot, fragrant, and slightly medicinal, it was the kind of drink that made you feel healthier just by holding it. Lunch itself was a lively affair, complete with a fish head that somehow became a centerpiece for improvised table theater.
Afternoon swimming blurred into evening swimming, and at some point, a camera crew filming a local tourism segment caught one of our own making a high, clean jump into the bay. By the next day, the footage had apparently made the rounds — and just like that, we had a celebrity onboard.
The plan was to stop at Uvala Tatinja on the way to Šolta, but every mooring spot there was taken. So Maxi raised the sails and we made a longer, wind-powered run instead. Most of the crew grew quietly hungrier by the minute, except for Mike, who was perfectly content with the day’s tacking angles and boat speed.
By sunset we were closing in on Šolta, the light low over the water, the tree back in Lučice now just a story, and the rosemary tea still somehow lingering in the air.
Uvala Šešula, Šolta — the kind of inlet that looks wide and generous on the chart, but tight enough in real life to make you instinctively inhale as you pass other boats. The mooring team here ran a tight operation, guiding us into place with precision that bordered on choreography.
It was also our first time rafting up — tying side-by-side with another boat like a makeshift floating duplex. Our neighbors for the night: Bjorn and his crew, who seemed entirely unfazed by the arrangement, as if he did this every Tuesday.
Dinner ashore was at Shish Mish, a small waterfront spot where the waitress could have powered the entire bay on sheer enthusiasm. Orders were taken, amended, and theatrically re-announced with a kind of joyful authority that left no doubt who was running the evening.
The next morning, Bjorn cast off before us, unhurried and methodical. His departure meant we had to re-tie to the buoy, a maneuver Lena appreciated mostly for Bjorn’s ability to make it look easy.
With that sorted, we headed toward the Blue Lagoon for the day’s “must-see” stop, Luka Drvenik Veli. Mooring was possible despite the crowd, but the real entertainment was in the transport: two swam the full distance there and back, two took the paddleboard, and the rest stayed unimpressed on the boat. The verdict: it was blue, yes, but probably not worth the marketing budget.
The last morning began without rush — no tight moorings, no buoy battles, just the steady hum of an engine pointing us back toward Trogir. After a week of tree ties, buoy catches, and docking improvisations, the return to Marina Baotic felt almost suspiciously calm, as if the boat itself knew we were finished and decided not to test us.
With the lines secure and the gear half-packed, we marked the end of the voyage the only way that made sense: dinner in town. Calebotta welcomed us with its stone walls, warm lighting, and plates sized according to a chef’s whim. Some portions were delicate; the risotto was not.
The true moment of triumph, however, belonged to the drink menu. After days of bottled, boxed, and “technically juice” options, fresh-squeezed orange juice appeared before us like a long-lost relative. It was sipped slowly, reverently — the kind of citrus reunion that deserved its own toast.
By the time we walked back to the marina, the night was warm, the boats were quiet, and the week’s chaos had already begun to feel like a good story we’d start telling badly on purpose. The dock didn’t move, the boat didn’t budge, and for the first time all trip, nobody needed to run anywhere.
After seven days, six islands, countless knots (both intentional and accidental), and one watermelon of mysterious origin, Anscombe was back where she began. The crew scattered — some to airports, some to ferries, some to showers that didn’t require strategic water rations.
For future selves and anyone else thinking of tracing this same wake:
We left with more inside jokes than photos, more questionable knots than proper ones, and the quiet satisfaction of having survived our first real tour of the Adriatic without losing either the boat or the orange juice.
Somewhere in the lagoon at Bobovišće, that tree is still holding our stern line in spirit. Somewhere on Hvar, a bush is still making that noise. And somewhere in our own heads, we’re still running five meters in slow motion with a single oar.
Drives the boat, drops the wisdom.
Perfectionist flirting with chaos.
Always smiling. First to dive in.
The one who actually knows how to sail.
Chasing the Horizon
Vanished Behind the Wave
Explore a breadcrumb trail of ports, countries, marinas we’ve boldly wandered.
