Sunrise finds us a little over twenty miles from Crotone. Inna gets up shortly afterwards and I duck inside in an attempt to snatch another hour and a half of sleep before Sofia starts showing signs of life. Inna goes down and I can hear her speaking silly phrases in a singsong voice to our waking daughter while I brush my teeth by the galley sink, keeping an eye on the instruments, and make a mocha pot of fresh coffee.

The morning is absolutely beautiful. There are a few clouds, the wind has eased to no more than fifteen knots and the waves are now smooth and not exceeding a meter in height. Before Inna goes off watch we turn Zangezi into the wind and release the reef from the main, gaining another half a knot of speed as a result.

There is a feeling of having gone through a real trial, a darkness, surviving and prevailing. This sensation is electrifying, like life itself in its most direct, immediate manifestation, animating what should by all measures be an exhausted, underslept body. Just like in the old Frank Sinatra tune, I smile and the whole world smiles with me.

Soon we spot the outlines of the land ahead. “Land ho!” we both cry in unison and Sofia bursts out laughing, picking up on the joy and relief in our voices. She is sitting in her chair, attached to the cockpit table, working on the second helping of breakfast. Even Kuzia comes out to the cockpit, looking around squinting, his question mark-shaped tail softly undulating.

As we get closer to shore the wind and waves continue to weaken, so we replace the genoa with a giant mylar gennaker. I check the pilot book to get an idea of the port layout and where we need to go once we are inside. It appears pretty straightforward: a section of the outer moll is reserved for yachts tied stern-to, Mediterranean-style. With just a few miles left to shore we are approached by a large pod of dolphins. This raises the mood onboard to euphoric levels. The dolphins stay with us, diving and breaching, playing with the bows, weaving back in forth a few centimeters ahead as though trying to show off to each other their fearlessness and skills as the three of us cheer from the net.

Less then two miles remain to the port entrance and we start making preparations for docking: tying fenders to both sides and arranging neatly coiled mooring and spring lines on the stern cleats. When there is less then a mile to go we roll up the gennaker, turn on the engines and steer into the wind to drop the main. Satisfied that everything is ship-shape and ready, I sit back at the helm to get a good look at the rapidly approaching port.

Just then something unexpected happens. Without any warning the starboard engine suddenly quits. There are no warning lights and opening the engine room hatch yields no clues. I try starting it, but all my efforts fail. The festive mood quickly dampens, turning into a mild sense of panic.

Here I have to step back and clarify something about large catamarans. While it is true that in most cases one engine is perfectly sufficient, this does not apply to maneuvering in close quarters. The reason is that a far bigger proportion of catamarans sticks out above the water than similar sized monohuls, making them more subjected to the wind, while also lacking the heavy keel, which gives additional inertia and directional stability. Having two hulls instead of one also adds to the overall effect, so that in order to precisely control a catamaran’s movement in close quarters, especially in the presence of any wind, requires both engines to be operational. With two engines on, a catamaran can be far more maneuverable then a monohull, able to literally turn on a dime, but with only one engine pushing from one side and with ten knots of wind, controlling it is impossible.